The Little Princess
by Isabelle
Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her. Chuck/Blair. COMPLETE.
1. Preface

**The Little Princess**

By Isabelle Hernandez

Rating: R, mature later chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Gossip Girl and much less Chuck and Blair. Sadly.

Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her.

A/N: It came to me in a dream, and I decided to write it down. Thank you to my beta, Tati.

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Preface

"_I asked my father once, as we sat on a plane on our way to Prague, if he loved my mother. He replied that I wouldn't know what love was until love had broken me. He dodged questions like he always did, but it wasn't until the age of nineteen that I understood what he meant. Father was always right, but mother always knew better – and somehow they made sense." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

It must be stated that Ilsa C. Bass never set out to be a writer. She lived her long and happy life as a socialite and a spokeswoman for Waldorf Designs. She married at the young age of 23, like most Upper East Siders, and loved her husband, Paxton Burke, and their four children. After she passed away, her diaries were found and published selectively by her eldest daughter, Blair C. Burke, and Ilsa's youngest sister, Eveline Bass, who never married and cared for her parents until they passed away. The diaries, found in 2088, two years after Ilsa died, detailed the story of the disappearance of Blair Bass in 2016. This is the story of Charles and Ilsa's journey when Ilsa was but five years old, and their search for her mother. Blair Bass died when Blair Burke was fourteen. Charles Bass died five months later. At their time of death, their family was well over fifty-five people and had large financial and political influence. Thanksgiving and Christmas was still religiously held at their home.

The story was never confirmed as either truth or a product of Ilsa's very grand imagination, which she was said to have inherited from her mother – or so said her father.

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_New York City_

"You've got to understand one thing about me," he says as he blows smoke through his nose. He watches the smoke float around him, making him less real and more fiction. "I'm going to find this woman, and I'm going to bring her home."

He states it with such finality that he feels the tiny hairs on the very top of his thighs curl and unfurl. The end of this story has been written. It always was, since the beginning.

He's young, he notices, younger than he thought. No more than twenty-five… maybe twenty-six, but he looks as if he's lived a hundred years. Lived a hundred lives. Loved a hundred women. Or men.

"She's the only woman I've ever loved." And the last statement comes out as a whisper, not meant for anyone to hear. Not meant to be repeated, to be believed, and much less to be real. But it is. As real as the five o'clock shadow that mars his young face, as real as the bags under his eyes.

What can a man do against such raw masculinity?

He can nod.

"I'm glad we understand one another. Bass jet in an hour…" He looks away. "I've got to put my daughter to sleep."

The elder, quieter man watches the younger one stand, flick off his cigarette and walk away. He must shake himself because for a moment he thinks he's in a film noir, with silent men in shadows who whisper about heroines in corners. He's stepped into a time-zone. Time can't touch them there.

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His forehead is pressed to side of the elevator as it ascends to the very top of the world, to the very top of the world he created for them. The one _they_ created. A place high above the clouds where they thought nothing could touch them. Yet here he was… a broken man.

He counts silently as he ascends. He counts the minutes of his life. He counts as his life is drained from him.

He thinks he finally understands how his father felt all those years.

He's got to face the most innocent thing in the world and assure her that the way she looks doesn't affect him. That her large brown eyes, inherited from her mother, don't cut right through him. In the past, he had love the resemblance, priding himself in her beauty. Now he cursed it. They were cursed dark creatures who had no right bringing innocent things into this world. They had brought all that darkness upon themselves. They _deserved_ this. They deserved it all.

_98… 103… 134… 154…_

The seconds of his life; the moments that passed him by.

The once comforting 'bing' of the elevator where he would rush home, happy and elated to finally be in his own little sanctuary with his tiny little family waiting for him is now tainted. No clicking of her heels… No perfume lingering in the air. No warm smile to greet him or narrowed eyes to pick a fight.

This was worse than anything. This was what his father felt _every day_. No wonder his old man hated him. Despised him. No wonder…

He became afraid that his heart would harden, turn into stone before he could blink his eyes again… Before he could backpedal his emotions… Before…

And then his salvation came in distant words, distant sounds…

"Daddy!"

Small bare feet dashed down the stairs and his heart leapt to his throat as he watched her trip slightly on her long nightgown.

"ILSA!" He shouted, running forward, but the child was fine, she bounced back like all small children do and ran the rest of the stairs, throwing herself in her father's arms as a mass of bouncing golden-brown curls floated around him.

He breathed in for a moment, reminding himself that she was alright. She was fine. Had no idea of the turbulence around her. Had no idea of the pain he was going through. Had no idea that he too would have to leave in search of their deliverance.

He pulled back to stared harshly at her. She could've fallen, she could've gotten hurt, she could've…died. The word was thick and dry in his throat. His tongue was raw with its effect.

"What have I told you about these stairs?" He nearly shouted.

Ilsa's eyes widened in fright. He never ever yelled at her. He did nothing but dote on her.

"I'm sorry daddy," she whispered. There was water already accumulating in her orbs and her little lower lip trembled slightly.

It broke his broken, dark heart and he felt just like his father. A twisted soul. How could he yell at such angel?

"You could've gotten hurt!" He reasoned and then pulled her to his chest, rocking her slightly as she held on to the collar of his shirt. Her tiny fingers, nails painted purple, dug into his skin as she made a grand show of being hurt. "You could've gotten hurt," he repeated.

As much as he loved being a father and watching his best friend and brother chuckle at how whipped he was by the little angelic thing, he often hated it. Despised it. Wanted to backpedal quickly and swiftly.

But then she would say 'daddy' and said thoughts would fly out of his head, and he would regret even thinking them.

"Where's Mommy?"

Her little voice broke through his thoughts, erasing delusions that all was well, and the pain that his heart tried to erase and bury surfaced faster than the time it took for him to fall in love with his little princess.

"She's not with you?" She asked, still tugging at his collar. He noticed she had been playing with her mother's makeup. There was a line of blush across one cheek and lipstick on her tooth. His jaw tightened, and he breathed in slowly.

"We have to talk, princess," he told her, carrying her up the stairs. She quickly wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and laid her head on his shoulder. They passed Dorota, whose eyes were wide and red.

"Mr. Chuck, I tried stop her but she quick, Mr. Chuck," Dorota attempted to explain, but Chuck held up his hand and dismissed her words.

"Bye Dorota." Ilsa waived her little hand at her maid as her father carried her to her room. Chuck gently laid her on her large bed and sat next to her, a shadow covering his face.

Ilsa, knowing of no danger and content with all the attention, happily snuggled into the covers. "Can I get a story, Daddy? A nice, long one?" She pleaded, and he was tempted to say yes. Tempted to lull her to sleep with tales of perfect love where darkness never touched a princess once she had lived happily ever after, but his heart wouldn't let him. He could lull her to sleep, never tell her of his plans, and have her sob for days on Serena's arms as she kept asking questions and never receiving answers. Yet he couldn't do it. He just couldn't. She would hate them. Hate him and that he couldn't live with.

"Listen, Ilsa…" He whispered. "Daddy has to go away for a while. Just a little while…"

His words and the tone of his voice instantly made her sit up on her bed, staring at him with no consolation.

"To Japan again, Daddy?" She cried, remembering the time he had left for days. Though her mother had tried to keep her entertained, by the third day of his absence she fell asleep in tears and Chuck flew back on day five instead of day fifteen as originally intended.

Chuck swallowed and met her eyes head on. "For a bit longer than that, baby."

The eyes before him widened even more and, on cue, water filled them. "No, Daddy!" She threw herself into his arms and sobbed loudly, filled with all the drama in her veins, begging him not to go. "Don't leave, Daddy! Please stay!"

He held her tightly, massaging her small head, tears threatening to spill from his own eyes at the thought that he was causing her so much distress.

"Aunt Serena is going to look after you while I'm gone," he attempted to explain. This set off a light bulb in her small head, and she pulled back and stared at him. Her blush was now gone as was the lipstick on her tooth. "Where's Mommy?"

He really did curse her at that moment. He cursed her for leaving him in his position, having to give this explanation. To see this pain.

"I'm… I'm going to find Mommy… and bring her back." He tried to speak without dissolving into his own misery.

This caused even more hysterics, as Ilsa realized she would be left alone without even her mother. But it was at that moment that she realized that she had not seen her mother all day… That she had not seen her mother for a while. Since last night, when she had whispered, "I'll always love you, my sweet angel," against Ilsa's forehead as she tucked her into to sleep.

"I want my mommy!" The child wailed loudly against his chest. "I want her now!"

"Shhh…. I know, princess…" His heart felt broken and lonely. In the warmth of the pink and yellow room, he felt utterly cold and alone. He felt raw and evil. He couldn't give this most innocent creature in the world what she so desired. "And you're going to get her, I promise, I swear it."

"Are you going to get her now?" Ilsa whimpered, rubbing her eyes, something her mother would never allow her to do.

"Yes. The plane's standing by… I promise to bring her back, princess. Before you know it, she will be singing you lovely songs and telling you happy stories. I promise." He would promise the world at the moment to this lovely child.

Wide brown eyes were not convinced of anything. They distrusted his words because he was leaving her and she hated him for it, he could see it in her eyes.

"I'll come with you!" She suddenly said, and he quickly shook his head, adamant in this thought.

"No, princess. You can't."

_Ding_. The elevator was heard again.

In the deep crevices of his heart he hoped it would be _her_. Taking off her gloves and handing them to Dorota as she told her how exhausted she was and how none of the women in the charity she had solely founded had any intelligent thoughts between their well-botoxed eyes. Her hair would be in an elegant twist and her hips would be encased in a fitting yet tasteful pen-skirt. She would bitch some more about those women before turning to the stairs and calling for her little princess. She would smile at her and embrace her, surrounding the little girl with her Chanel perfume and asking her why her father hadn't put her to bed yet. She would do all those things and then turn to him, a mischievous smile on her lips. 'I see she's convinced you she has no bedtime again, my love.' And he would smile, meeting her with a kiss and reply, 'your daughter does put up a very convincing argument.' And then their daughter would demand their attention by showing them how well she had brushed her teeth.

But it was not Mrs. Bass. Not this time. He needed to find her to be once more chastised for letting their daughter be up past her bedtime.

"Chuck!"

He closed his eyes. Serena was here.

"No, Daddy!" Ilsa shouted, well aware that her time was soon coming. She clung tighter to him, sobbing louder and louder. Serena, sensing where the screams were coming from, quickly entered her niece's room. Ilsa let out a wail when she spotted her aunt. "No, Daddy!"

Serena's eyes were just as hollow and her eyes met Chuck's and they nodded at one another.

"Sweetheart, don't cry. Please don't cry," Serena soothed Ilsa, sitting by Chuck and running her hands over the curls. "You love coming home with me, you'll play with Francis. You can pull his tail all you like."

"I don't want to! Please, Daddy, please!" And that's when Chuck started pulling her small hands from his neck. Pulling her off and breaking off a piece of the little bit of soul he still had left.

"C'mon, Ilsa, you'll soon see Daddy," Serena attempted, sensing from Chuck's silence that he was inches from falling apart.

"NOOO!!" He was finally free of her, and Serena held her back, her own tears now falling quickly down her cheeks. "DADDYYYY!!!!"

Chuck felt like a monster. He was a cruel human being. He was a wretched soul. How could he do this to her? Listening to her sobs, watching her little outstretched arms as they begged for him.

"Please, Daddy, I'll be a good girl. I'll be a good girl, I promise! Please don't leave, Daddy!" Her wails broke him. Broke all that was left of him. His eyes were wide and red as he turned, his ears capturing every word, every sob, every tear, every plea.

"No! Daddy, please! I wont ask for a pony, I promise, Daddy!" Ilsa sobbed, and Serena sobbed right along her like a fool. "I won't cry at the doctors, I won't! I'll even get a shot, Daddy, please! Please, I'll be a good girl, I'll be a good girl –"

He couldn't take it. He was a fool.

He swiftly turned and captured Ilsa in his arms, holding her to him as she sobbed in relief. "Don't go, Daddy, don't go. Please don't go. Don't leave me behind. I'll be a good girl. I will try my hardest, daddy!"

"You're a good girl, Ilsa. You're a perfect girl." He explained, and Serena sobbed into her hands because she couldn't help.

"Then why are you leaving me, Daddy?" Ilsa demanded, her face twisted as she glared at him, touching his face. "Why, Daddy?"

"I'm not leaving forever, baby. Just for a little while, just to go get mommy," he explained quietly, but his voice felt like it belonged to a stranger. Serena sobbed even more, making more noise than Ilsa.

"Mommy said…" Ilsa was now hiccupping. "M-mommy said that forever is for however long the heart thinks it to be."

Charles Bass looked into the eyes of his child, and she knew that she had won. His own daughter, his flesh and blood had beat him at all his games. She had used her most powerful weapon. His love for Blair.

"Let's get you packed."

"_I asked my father once, as we sat on a plane on our way to Prague, if he loved my mother. He replied that I wouldn't know what love was until love had broken me. He dodged questions like he always did but it wasn't until the age of nineteen that I understood what he meant. Father was always right, but mother always knew better – and somehow they made sense." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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TBC

Belle's notes: I've nearly finished this story, I will be posting chapters every other day to give everyone a chance to read it. Thank you for your encouraging comments, I always read them and appreciate them. I am very happy that I'm able to give you all a nice break from RL. Characters in this fic will be mostly Ilsa and Chuck, as the story is told by her young eyes but Blair will be often featured in memories or Ilsa's thoughts of her and her parents. Other GG characters will be minimal if any, I do a lot of original characters. This style is a bit different for me as most of you who have read my fiction know I tend to write in Blair's POV because I 'get' her more and I think her inner thoughts are hilarious so let us hope I dont mess this bit up too much. Carry on. :)


	2. Chapter 1: Mr Burke

**The Little Princess**

By Isabelle Hernandez

Rating: R, mature later chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Gossip Girl and much less Chuck and Blair. Sadly.

Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her.

A/N: It came to me in a dream, and I decided to write it down. Thank you to my beta, Tati.

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**Chapter 1: Mr. Burke**

"_The earliest memory of my mother was of her dressed in a pale ivory coat, smiling at my father. She had a round belly and a smile on her face. I didn't see that smile again for many, many months. Years later, I asked her what had happened that was so sad, to which she replied that though life is not always happy, it is always true." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

The thing that made Ilsa happiest was the fact that Daddy let her wear her red coat. She _loved_ her red coat. It had a lovely silk bow on the waist, full skirt and a soft caramel-colored fur around the collar. It felt like she was being hugged by a teddy bear. But it also reminded her of the films she watched with Mommy, cuddled in silk sheets on cold days. They were from old times, where the film always ended with a kiss of true love. She wore her white gloves and shiny patent shoes as Dorota carried her luggage behind them. In her right hand, she held Prince Albert the frog prince her mommy had gotten her when she was a baby. In her left, she held on tightly to Daddy's hand, attempting to keep up with his long steps as he stared ahead towards the plane.

Her red coat had been a present from her grandfather Harold, and she was only allowed to wear it on special occasions, which was how she knew this was a special trip because Daddy said 'let her wear what she likes' to Dorota, and she had promptly insisted on her red coat and soft white gloves.

"Where are we going, Daddy?" She peered up at her father. His face was not soft and smiling like it usually was; it was hard and distant, and she didn't quite know what to make of it. There was only so much a five year old could understand, you see. She had been on their plane many times: to visit France and London, to go to the mountains, to travel to Barcelona. She had memories of it, but she had never been on the plane with just her daddy. On occasion it had been just her and her mommy as they flew to meet Daddy while he was away on business, but never just the two of them. This felt _special_, like a bonding trip.

"Prague," he responded, still not looking at her, and her eyes lit up.

"Is Mommy in Prague?" She inquired with great curiosity.

"No," he replied and left it at that as he continued walking towards the plane.

Ilsa frowned. It wasn't like her father to go monosyllabic on her, and much less ignore her. She noticed a strange man, badly dressed, waiting by the plane for them. It wasn't Joe, their pilot, but someone else. They walked until they were directly in front of the man, who smelled like something bitter and smoky and she didn't like it.

"Family outing?" The man asked her father, and her own brows furrowed.

"Who are you?" She demanded, not used to being ignored by adults. Adults usually fawned over her, complimenting her coat, her froggie, her caramel locks or her lips. This man ignored her, and she didn't like it.

The man turned slowly to meet her eyes, much taller than her father and much dirtier.

"Don't worry about that, _little princess_." He sneered down at her, and she recoiled back, hiding behind her father's well-shaped legs, tucking Prince Albert firmly under her chin.

"She comes, and that's final," she heard her father declare. Before she knew it, he had picked her up in his arms and started up the stairs of the plane with her. She peeked over her father's shoulder to stare at the mean man.

The man stared right back at her.

She stuck her tongue out.

Served him right. She didn't like smelly people.

"Daddy, he smells like Brooklyn," she whispered to her father. And though Ilsa couldn't see it at the moment, it was the first time a miniscule smile tugged at her father's lips. "Mommy said that people that smell like Brooklyn can't be trusted." She eyed the man who followed them up the plane stairs, never taking his eyes off her.

Once inside the plane, her daddy placed her on a large plush chair and made sure her coat was well hung so it wouldn't get wrinkled. He placed a soft cashmere throw over her legs and secured her seat belt. She beamed up at him when he handed her Prince Albert, hugging the frog with all her might.

"Get her some milk," he commanded a pretty flight attendant who flashed her father a wide smile, which made Ilsa frown.

"With honey!" Ilsa snapped at the woman, who turned to stare at her in surprise. "And slightly warm, if you please." She huffed and fixed her curls.

Her father spared her a sidelong glance. "You heard her." He told the woman who quickly stopped smiling at her father. She must be new.

Dorota entered the plane right after the smelly man, who went directly to talk to Joe. The woman was crying, and Ilsa couldn't understand why. She placed a little suitcase next to Ilsa, sniffling the whole time.

"Your toys, Miss Ilsa," she said, fixing the blanket around her. "You be good with your papa, yes?"

"Yes, Dorota," Ilsa agreed. "I promised I would be the best little girl."

"Good, child. Good." Dorota fixed her curls some more, making sure her sparkly headband was well in place, and tucked Prince Albert under the blanket. She leaned in close to the girl. "Your papa very sad, yes? You make him happy, yes?"

Small Ilsa could hardly understand what her nana meant, but Mommy had always said to obey Dorota no matter what so she nodded eagerly, eager to make her father happy since he was so sad.

Dorota kissed the top of her head and quickly left the plane.

"Why isn't Dorota coming with us?" Ilsa asked her father, who had now sat on the other side of the plane, his face still hard and sad, holding a glass of dirty water in his hand. Ilsa wondered why he didn't get milk also.

He didn't answer her and simply looked out of the window. Ilsa sighed, annoyed once more at being ignored. She watched with wide and curious eyes as the smelly man came to her father, whispered something, handing him some papers and leaving them to sit in the front where he spread out, pulled his raggedy hat over his face, and went to sleep. It seemed to Ilsa that it couldn't be a very comfortable position.

She turned her small head to her father, who studied the paper before him with a set intensity, like when her Mommy told her not to bother him because he was a very important and busy man. Yet… In those times, when he would sense her spying on him in her nightgown, whispering to Prince Albert that he needed to be quiet or he would disturb Daddy's concentration, her father would turn and invite her to his lap, letting her fall asleep there as the continued going over the paperwork on his desk.

"Daddy?" She asked quietly, finishing the warm milk the lady had brought her. "Can I sit with you, Daddy?"

Her father sighed tiredly, running a hand over his face. It seemed to small Ilsa that she had never seen her father look so very… devastated. So lost and alone. It was at that precise moment that she realized how much she missed her mother. Her mother always knew what to do when her father was angry or sad. She always knew what to do when Ilsa herself was angry or sad. She just didn't understand what she had done so very wrong to make her mother leave without saying goodbye.

"Not now, princess," he whispered quietly. Ilsa sighed and pressed her small face into Prince Albert's soft fur, whispering and explaining to him that they needed to be good lest Daddy leave them in New York with Auntie Serena and her new Uncle whose name she couldn't remember. After Prince Albert agreed, the soft hum of the jet's engine lulled the small child to sleep. Sometime in the night, her father picked her up, laid her against his chest and let her and her frog sleep there for the rest of the night.

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"_The first time I saw Prague, it was under a sad circumstance which I could still not comprehend. But for the first time I finally understood beauty. My mother's love was Paris and mine became Prague. I found a twin soul and years after I made a point to visit as often as possible, basking in its dark streets and wet cobbled steps. I was a heroine there; the star of my very own film." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

In the old limousine, riding through the city as the early morning greeted the Prague citizens, little Ilsa Bass pressed her face up against the window, intent on memorizing every detail of this new city. Prince Albert was just as excited as she was, falling in love with it along with her. The pristine and impressive buildings were so very different from New York.

"This place is magic, Daddy!" She exclaimed to her father, who now wore sunglasses and stared blankly ahead. "This is where princesses live, Daddy, _real_ princesses!"

Her father said nothing, but Prince Albert was quite chatty. From the front of the limo, the smelly man mumbled and grumbled at her chatter but she firmly ignored him. Mommy always said that if something needed to be said, then it should be stated not hidden.

She watched as elderly women dressed in fine Italian shoes walked briskly in the streets with bags of groceries, stopping to greet one another, exchanging idle gossip and soft smiles. She watched tourists, which her mother had taught her to despise, with contempt. Their shorts, cameras and hippy backpacks became quite offensive and she sniffed at them. Tour groups filled with lost and eager teens blocked the limo's path, and she explained to Prince Albert that the lower classes had no choice but to travel in packs in order to make Europe more affordable.

"I wont ever have to travel in packs, will I, Daddy?" she asked her father as the limo slowed down before an impressive building. "Where are we, daddy?"

"A friend's home. I need to speak with him privately," her father said, pulling on his gloves to guard against the cold weather outside. Ilsa imitated him, ensuring her own gloves were firmly closed around the pearl buttons. She also made sure Prince Albert's cape was well-fitted; she didn't want him to catch a cold and slow them down in their adventure.

"Stay here, Ilsa. Stay with the driver," her father said. It was not a request, but rather a fact.

"No, Daddy! You promised! You promised you wouldn't leave me behind!" Ilsa cried, her heart hammering at the thought of being left alone with a driver she didn't know. She knew Arthur well and was fine with him – Arthur drove her all over the city and ensured she arrived safely at all her location – but she didn't know this creepy man and she refused to be abandoned with him. Plus, Prince Albert had forgotten his sword and who would defend her if not her father?

"The kid is slowing us down," the smelly man grumbled, coming around the car when her father opened the door.

Her father turned and gave the man a hard glare, harder than Ilsa had ever seen her father give anyone else. Even Ilsa recoiled back from said look.

"Mommy would _never _leave me with a stranger," Ilsa assured him with finality. That apparently did the trick as her father got out of the car and turned to offer her his hand. She happily took it, making sure she had a good grasp on Prince Albert and followed him outside.

The air even smelled different here than in New York, she realized. It smelled of old things. Like her grandmother's jewelry chest, which she was allowed to peek at once in a while when Grandma Eleanor let her play dress up in her room. As her father spoke to the mean man, she listened intently.

"I wasn't able to reach him," the man explained to her father.

"Then a surprise visit it is," her father replied, cold smoke blowing from his lips.

"Are you sure he's the man to help?" The driver inquired.

"I pay you for many things, but questioning me is not one of them, Parker." Her father snapped and Ilsa had a little delirious smile on her lips as she nodded, emphasizing her father's words to _Parker_. No one questioned her father… Well, maybe her mother. Definitely her mother. Sometimes her Grandmother Eleanor, but even she knew when to stop meddling.

Her father started them towards the grand home in the center of the city. Ilsa stretched her little neck upwards to see how high the building went. Was it as high at the New York ones where she at times couldn't see the end? Was it a short building like the Hamptons house? One thing was certain; the Basses didn't own a home this old. It wasn't decrepit… it was simply old. Like the Palaces of Versailles where her mother took her last fall with her Uncle Eric and Grandpa Harold.

"Are we staying here, Daddy? Is this a hotel? Do you own this hotel?" She asked, attempting to keep up with his quick steps. Her curls bounced around her, and she nearly tripped on the hard stone steps but her father, realizing he was dragging her, quickly pulled her up before she snagged her tights or scraped a knee.

"No, no and no," he answered quickly, arriving at the door and ringing the elegant bell.

Ilsa fixed her hair, making sure it was properly in place. She dusted off any invisible lint on her fine coat and made sure it was presentable. She narrowed her small eyes when she spotted a small scuff on her shiny black shoes, which her Uncle Eric had gotten her for her birthday. She would have to get one of the maids to properly clean them. She told this to Prince Albert as they waited for the door to be opened, adjusting his twisted cape.

When the door was finally opened, a serious old butler appeared and looked down at the Basses past his crooked nose. Ilsa scurried and hid behind her father as she peeked up at the man.

"Charles Bass to see Remington Burke," her father announced, unconcerned with the man's sneering look.

"Into the foyer, sir." The man had a refined English accent, one that many of her parents' friends had. Her father pulled her into the home, but Ilsa stopped, knowing her manners very well, and curtsied before the butler.

"Ilsa Cordelia Bass-Waldorf, if you please," she decided to introduce herself, seeing as her father had also introduced himself. The butler's eyebrows rose and hid under his thinning hair. He nodded at her.

"Yes, miss. You can _also_ go into the foyer," he nodded at her.

"Ilsa," her father chastised, grabbing her hand and pulling her along to sit on a plush dark brown sofa.

"I'm sorry, Daddy, but he needed to know my name also in order to receive a proper introduction from our host," she explained, fixing her skirt around her. "Mommy said to always make sure that people know exactly who you are, otherwise they threat you like commoners, which we are _not._"

Her father sighed, burying his head in his hands, which made Ilsa feel guilty. Perhaps she should stop mentioning her mother so often, but she couldn't help it. All she knew she had learned from her, and she needed to state the source in order for her statements to hold any validity. She said this to Prince Albert in secret, and he heartily agreed.

Despite her folded hands before her, her crossed ankles and her perfect posture, Ilsa's wide eyes searched out the home with thirsty curiosity. From the thick Persian carpets to the fine porcelain china to the thick mahogany that covered nearly every corner of the home. To her, it felt a bit cluttered. Their home was simple yet classically styled and never overly furnished.

"_You can always tell new money by the way they furnish their home," her mother told her some months ago. Her belly was large and protruding as she made sure Dorota properly moved the console table to the right angle. "I'll never understand the need for such sumptuousness, and neither shall you."_

"_Yes, Mommy." Ilsa trailed behind her taking mental notes of these important lessons despite the fact that she had no clue what 'sumptuousness' meant._

"_Thank goodness your father has me, though he does inherently have good taste. Which is what attracted me to him in the first place, you know. I always knew I would fall in love with him," she said with authority._

_Dorota sniffled dismissively, which earned her a glare from her mother._

"_I __always__ knew I would love him, my flower, don't you believe otherwise," her mother told her, and Ilsa eagerly nodded._

"Are they _new_ money, daddy?" Ilsa whispered to her father, who for the first time turned to really look at her. It was then that she noticed he hardly looked at her, always talked to her from the side. Always avoiding her eyes and her gaze.

"Yes, Ilsa. They are," he confirmed.

Ilsa pursed her lips. Weren't the Humphreys also new money, and she had been firmly told to avoid them?

"Mommy said –"

"Be quiet," her father said as the butler came back into the room with an air about him.

"Mr. Burke will see you now, Mr. Bass… _and_ Miss Bass," the man nodded at her direction.

Ilsa smiled prettily at him, and the man hid a smile as he led them up some stairs and into a darkened hallway. Her father walked behind her as the old butler showed them the way to Mr. Burke's office. Ilsa's eyes wandered to the paintings in the dark hallways. They were authentic, she noticed, having been taught this lesson by her Grandfather Harold.

She was so enthralled by the items that she stopped walking. Her father's hand was at her back.

"Walk on, Ilsa," he murmured and she looked up at him.

"We have more Picassos than they do, Daddy," she confided. Her father motioned for her to be quiet. She mirrored his actions to Prince Albert, who seemed to be very chatty today.

They were led to a door that the butler opened, ushering them inside. It was a grand office, with large windows overlooking the city. A large desk housed a man who was bent over his papers. He had a set face and a scar on his eyebrow. He was a cold man, Ilsa decided; he reminded her of the picture of her dead Grandfather Bartholomew, which her father kept in his office as far from his desk as possible. The picture made her grasp at her mother's skirt, burying her face in the soft cloth despite her mother's reassurance.

Ilsa grasped her father's hand tightly, attempting to be brave like she promised she would. This man could know where her mother was and that was most important to her, since she needed her father to be happy once more.

"Mr. Burke, Mr. Bass for you," the butler announced.

Ilsa cleared her throat and eyed the elder man.

"_And_ Miss Ilsa Cordelia Bass-Waldorf, sir," the butler clarified. Ilsa turned her small head to study the reaction of Mr. Burke who finally looked up from the endless papers on his desk. It was obvious that this man didn't have a mommy to tidy up behind him. Her daddy's desk always remained respectable because her mother would go in with Dorota and organize it once a week.

"_What would it take for him to simply put things back where he found them?"Her mother would hiss as Ilsa watched from the doorway. "Next week I will have to check the office, it must be a disaster."_

"_Can I come, Mommy? I can help organize!" Ilsa would offer. _

_Her mother would turn to her and smile. "Of course, princess. You and Prince Albert can come, and then we can all have lunch with your father at Fig & Olive so you can have your favorite Goat Cheese Crostini."_

"_Oh, yes, please, Mommy!" Ilsa would cry, delighted at the prospect of such a wonderful day. "And then can we stop by the park and feed the ducks my leftovers?"_

"_I think this is a wonderful plan." Her mother would hold her, and she would feel safe._

Mr. Burke stood from his spot, eyeing the curious pair.

"Charles Bass… It's been some time…" the man said slowly.

"Remy. How are you?" Chuck held out his hand. Ilsa eyed the two men, sensing that they fought a battle with neither words nor weapons. She clutched Prince Albert tighter and told him all would be well.

Mr. Burke slowly took her father's hand, shaking it firmly, and then turned to eye the little girl speculatively.

"My daughter, Remy," Chuck explained.

"Ilsa Cordelia Bass-Waldorf," she added, curtsying once more.

Mr. Burke was serious for a moment before a foreign smile broke out over his face. It was an odd sort of smile. A cruel one. "She's the spitting image of her mother, Charles. Are you sure she's yours?"

Her father's jaw tensed and his shoulders squared. Ilsa didn't like this at all, but she didn't hide behind her father's legs this time. She stood her ground. She did place Prince Albert before her just in case there was an attack.

"Remy," her father spoke, and she knew that tone well and clear. It was a warning. Like when he would warn her about running down the stairs or getting too close to a ledge of their roof, where they would often hold dinner.

"I'm only jesting, of course, Charles. No need to be sensitive. You live too long in the States and you forget you sense of humor. You should move the family out here for a while. Prague would do you good." Mr. Burke took out a cigar and offered one to her father. She eyed the apprehension in her father before he turned to her.

"Princess… I need some time alone with Mr. Burke," her father explained, speaking to her at eye-level. He ran his hand through her curls and met her eyes. "Do you mind –?"

"Phillip, take her to the play room. She can be entertained there while Paxton is out." Mr. Burke answered with a certain degree of finality.

"No, Daddy!" Ilsa urged a whisper to her father, her eyes wide. No amount of play rooms would lure her from her father's side.

"Listen to me, Princess. It'll only be for a little while; the moment we're done, I will rush in to find you," her father assured her and kissed her forehead.

Ilsa's lower lip stuck out and her eyes got large and watery. "What if I'm kidnapped?"

"Then I will rescue you. I swear it," her father said with the slightest hint of a smile on his lips.

Ilsa huffed. Prince Albert was violently upset with this news, but he bravely attempted to keep a straight face. She had to be brave like him and not show her father how terrified she really was of being left alone in a strange city and a dinky old house.

Her father stood high above her and turned her around, pushing her towards the butler. Ilsa turned to look at the two men over her shoulder as the butler guided her away from her father. She always remembered her father's distraught face once he turned back to Mr. Burke.

"I'm going to beg something of you, Remy. It's the one time in my life you'll ever see me beg…"

And then the door closed behind her.

"_When I was a child, m__y father was grander than life. He wore fine suits and loved us very much, but he was a man in charge of the world. As I grew older, I learned more and more about him. I found him irreplaceable, and I understood how my mother could never truly love another quite as she loved him. He loved her with all the passion he had in life. He loved her all or none, and it was always all. When my mother died, when both of their hairs were filled with gray, I worried myself sick for him. I'd never seen a man so broken, not even when he thought he lost her long ago." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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Tbc

A/N - Since I was off today I decided to post chap 1, I hope you all enjoy it. I should have the next bit up on Wednesday when I come back home. I want to thank each of you who sent me feedback, you all are so nice and wonderful on your reviews. I thank you for your encouraging words.


	3. Chapter 2: The Boy In The Nursery

**The Little Princess**

By Isabelle Hernandez

Rating: R, mature later chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Gossip Girl and much less Chuck and Blair. Sadly.

Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her.

A/N: It came to me in a dream, and I decided to write it down. Thank you to my beta, Tati.

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**Chapter 2: The Boy In the Nursery**

"_I was never really a lonely child. I had a happy childhood. I was protected from the evil and harsh things in the world by my parents and those around me. Yet I didn't have many playmates until my brother was born when I was already eight years old. I had often asked my parents for a small sister or a brother, but this was a hard subject for them. Later I would understand why." ~ Ilsa C. Bass._

Phillip took little Ilsa down even more hallways in the dark and cold house. No longer was she enchanted by it; now she absolutely abhorred it. She was left without her father, her mother was missing and Prince Albert was eerily silent, never reassuring her that all would be fine.

"This way, Princess Ilsa," the butler told her, and this nickname earned him some points in her book. He was a kind man who realized she was important. They stood by a door, as far from Mr. Burke's office as it could be.

The playroom, Mr. Burke had said. It was an awfully long way from her father. What if she needed him? What if the building blocks fell? He would never hear it!

Her own nursery was quite close to her parents' bedroom. The day she fell from the table (which she wasn't supposed to be climbing to begin with) in an attempt to reach her books and hit her arm, her parents heard her quite clearly as she screamed and sobbed loudly. All of her princess books fell from the shelf and some landed on her head. Prince Albert was crushed under Cinderella yet he bravely said not a word, and Ilsa felt horrible for screaming so loudly. Her mother had rocked her back and forth, rubbing the large bruise on her arm, and her father barked orders to the staff to have her precious tea table removed from her room promptly. Ilsa felt like a tiny, helpless child. First she was scolded for even thinking of climbing the table, and then she was coddled. At least she was allowed to sleep between her parents that night, a tiny pink band-aid over the cut on her elbow where a tiny droplet of blood had gotten out. Prince Albert's head had ended up heavily bandaged with lace. They were all afraid he would not last the night, but he pulled through, and Mommy even gave him a shot with a cuticle stick while Ilsa winced for him, rubbing tears out of his eyes. He was all better in the morning. Mommy gave him good stuff.

"In you go, dear," the butler opened the door and pushed her slightly inside.

The room was filled with all the grandeur a child could want, much like her own room in New York and the one in France. Yet her own rooms were warm and filled with memories: the times her parents had tea parties with her, or the times her mother twirled her around and around in her new yellow dress. In France, the time Grandpa Roman and Grandpa Harold helped her produce a play for Grandma Eleanor, Grandpa Cyrus and Uncle Nate. She had been the princess, of course, and Roman had been the evil sorcerer who kept her locked in the tower while her Grandfather Harold played her prince who rescued her and with whom she lived happily ever after. She didn't even notice her parents were gone for hours, and returned looking suspiciously rumpled and eager to learn of how her 'Prince' had rescued her from a burning castle.

No. This room held no such memories. She could feel it in the cold wallpaper, in the neatly placed toys, in the un-worn carpet… It was a sad room.

"Play now." And the butler closed the door behind him.

Ilsa Bass had never felt as lonely as she felt on that day, at that moment. Her little feet stayed put in the same place, her wide eyes looking around in fear. Despite all the toys around them, Prince Albert didn't want to play. He only wanted to go home, to their nursery, to their books and their plush pink carpet littered with brunette Barbies.

"We must be brave, Prince Albert," her little voice quivered in the grand room. "We promised…" Her voice cut off as tears, which she had been holding since her father agreed to send her away, finally poured out of her eyes.

She pressed her small face into Prince Albert's fine green fur. Oh, how she wished all was well! How she wished she was home, being held by her mother, given pink and green French macaroons and assured that all would be alright!

She spotted a plush blue chair with a blanket and threw herself dramatically on it, sobbing loudly for all to hear. Prince Albert cried too, though he would deny it later on.

And that's how she fell asleep.

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"_The first time I laid eyes on Paxton Burke, I thought he was a scrawny little thing with the loneliest eyes I had ever seen. He grew up loving inanimate objects and being firmly ignored by his father. When I told my mother at length about the little boy in the nursery, she had a sad sort of look on her face. Years later, she told me the story of my father and how he grew up. I remember going to bed, crying despite her reassurance that he was fine now. My heart broke to think that my handsome father had once been a boy in a nursery." ~ Ilsa C. Bass, 35 yrs old._

Ilsa had always known the feeling of being watched as she slept. She would often wake to find either her mother or father watching her sleep, only to greet her with kisses and hugs which she relished completely. They would lay tangled in the sheets as they whispered secrets to one another. Granted, this little game was more a mother thing, as her father had only been caught watching her sleep a handful of times. Prince Albert, who was well known for being unable to keep a secret, often told her he had caught her father himself. So she knew daddy's little secret.

Somewhere in the stillness of her sleepy and tired mind, she knew that it was neither her mother nor father who watched her slumber this time. She thought she said 'who is it?' but it came out a mumble as her brain was still muddled with deep sleep.

Her eyes slowly blinked, taking in her surroundings. And that was when she spotted him.

A little boy was there, small and scrawny, yet perfectly dressed in a pressed little suit and shiny shoes. He stared at her with unabashed interest, studying her movements as she slowly sat up, her full skirt hanging over his left leg. She didn't know how he got into such a perverse position.

The boy spoke softly in a strange language which was neither French nor English. She blinked at him, picking up Prince Albert and pressing him against her tiny chest.

"Do you speak English?" She asked him.

"You're American?" He replied, shaking himself.

"Of course I am, what did you expect me to be?" She snapped.

His eyes narrowed. "You talk too much to be a doll."

Her mouth dropped. She _was_ a doll! Her mother and father often said it. Even Aunt Serena had said to some people 'Isn't she a doll?'

"I _am_ a doll, you silly little boy!" She bit back and his small eyebrows furrowed as he glared at her.

"No, you're not. You're a little girl. I demand to know what you're doing in my room, _girl_," He whined, hands on his small hips.

"I am, for your information, a _princess_," Ilsa explained to him in her haughtiest voice.

He scoffed. Scoffed! How _dare_ he scoff at her?!

"I doubt it. You'd have bodyguards and, besides, everyone knows that America doesn't have royalty!" The boy countered.

"Oh, yes, we do! And _everyone_ calls me a Princess." She threw a brown curl over her shoulder.

"Just because some people call you that doesn't mean you are, silly." He came closer.

"I have a tiara! My mommy bought me a tiara!" She stomped her foot indignantly.

"And where's your mommy now?" He snapped, smirking as he watched her face deflate.

"You're a mean, _mean _little boy!" Ilsa cried and, without thinking about it, hit the boy in the face with Prince Albert. "You're just jealous because you have no mommy!"

The little boy's face fell and he became enraged, grabbing Prince Albert from her small fist, throwing him on the floor and stomping on the frog with all of his might.

Ilsa let out a cry of despair as she watched her precious toy be tortured in such a way. "Stop it! Stop it! DADDYYYY!!!!"

Her resonating high-pitched scream reverberated in the usually quiet house, and the little boy looked at her in shock.

"Shut up!" He hissed, pushing her and sending Ilsa into further hysterics. "Shut up, you stupid girl! My father will hear you!"

"DADDYYY!!!!" Ilsa sobbed, stomping her foot angrily.

Before either knew it, the nursery door had been wrenched open and Chuck barged in, his eyes wide as he took in the scene before him. His daughter was having a full sob-fest and Prince Albert lay suspiciously stomped under the fine shoe of a little boy.

"HE KILLED HIM, DADDY! HE KILLED PRINCE ALBERT!!!"

Her father quickly stepped forward and picked her up, holding her against his chest as the little boy watched the situation he had caused with wide, desperate eyes. Ilsa peeked her head over to look at the little boy from her father's arms.

"He called me stupid, and he said I wasn't a princess, and a-and he s-said my mommy was gone, AND he _killed_ Prince Albert, Daddy! And Mommy is not here to give him a shot and make him better!" Ilsa sobbed uncontrollably as Mr. Burke stepped into the room, casual and calm. When the little boy spotted him, he hid behind a trunk of neatly placed toys.

"Paxton," the man said sternly.

Her father shushed her and assured her that the frog was quite all right, but Ilsa didn't buy it. His neck was twisted in a funny angle.

"Paxton!" Mr. Burke barked, and both Ilsa and her father turned to stare at the little boy, who peeked his head and stared at the man.

"Father," the boy said in a little voice, as he slowly emerged from hiding.

Mr. Burke's stony face took the boy in. "What have you to say for yourself, boy?"

Ilsa noticed that her father's face fell as he watched the interaction between Mr. Burke and Paxton.

"Really, Remy, it's fine. She'll be fine –"

"That's not the point, Charles. _Is_ it, Paxton?" Mr. Burke nearly yelled. "We do not treat guests like this, much less a young lady. Do we, _Paxton_?"

In her tiny mind, Ilsa inexplicably started to feel very bad for causing such a scene over Prince Albert. The way small Paxton shook before his mean father was something she had never _ever_ seen. Daddies were loving and gentle, and they smoothed your tears when you cried. They didn't look down on their children.

"N-no, sir," Paxton nodded, his little back straight.

Ilsa's father put her back down on the floor, watching as she picked up the abused Prince Albert. Ilsa sniffled a bit, holding her beloved frog to her chest.

"Apologize to Miss Bass, Paxton," Mr. Burke said decisively.

Ilsa's brown eyes watched as Paxton turned to look at her. She noticed his eyes were wide and wet. They would dissolve into tears at any moment. She gulped and turned into her father's legs, peeking out towards the little boy who had been nothing but mean to her.

"I apologize, Miss Bass –"

"Ilsa," she corrected him. "Ilsa Cordelia Bass-Waldorf, if you please."

"Ilsa," The little boy repeated, looking over her curls curiously. "I apologize, Ilsa for stomping on your frog –"

"On Prince Albert," Ilsa informed him, still half buried in her father's legs.

"Ilsa," her father sent her a warning, and she huffed.

"Fine. I accept your apologies for being so very mean to me," Ilsa concluded the transaction with satisfaction.

"Very well. We're all done here, yes?" Her father urged her and turned to Mr. Burke, who still glared at his son disapprovingly.

"Yes. You're dismissed, Paxton," Mr. Burke snapped, and Ilsa watched as the little boy's eyes widened again. Mr. Burke had no further thoughts or words for his son, and his small shoulders slumped as he quickly scurried to the back of the room where a door lay ajar. He disappeared behind the door. Ilsa and Prince Albert watched the door with intent curiosity, desperate to know what the door held. Perhaps a dungeon!

She turned to look at her father, who was talking in a strained manner to Mr. Burke.

"I thought we had an agreement," her father ground out. Taking advantage of their distraction, she softly padded over to the door, glancing over her shoulder to see that she was clear of view before she bounced quickly through the door Paxton had disappeared through.

She paused and took in her surroundings. It was a room, like all rooms. A dresser, a TV, and a bed. The room was _painfully_ neat, like one of the guestrooms in her home. A small figure lay on the bed, and Ilsa walked nearer to investigate. She gulped, watching Paxton Burke's small shoulders shook as he sobbed quietly into the perfectly lined pillows.

Ilsa's small and _sometimes_ compassionate heart broke a bit.

Her mother had once told her she had a good heart.

The little head on the bed turned to look at her, peering at her from the pillow. He was so sad and alone that she couldn't help doing what she did next. She stood on the tip-toes of her patent black shoes, leaned forward and _kissed_ Paxton Burke on the cheek. Her own cheeks flushed a deep red color as Paxton stared at her in confusion and awe. In her innocence, she didn't realize that it was the first time any sort of affection had been given to Paxton Burke free of charge. Their eyes collided. The intensity was too much for a small five year-old, so she turned swiftly and ran out of the room back to her father, leaving behind her a confused and besotted Paxton Burke.

"_My plan was never to see Paxton Burke again. As a small child, I despised him. I held only bad memories of him. I never intended for him to move to New York the spring I turned eight. The story has been developing ever since." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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Ilsa watched, safely tucked into the side of her father, as the city flew by around them. Every once in a while he would kiss the top of her curls, and she would turn to him and give him her best smile – even if he didn't return it.

"Are you hungry?" He asked her quietly.

She nodded. "Can we go to Daniel?" She urged, and he shook his head.

"We're not in New York anymore, princess," he explained patiently. Ilsa frowned, displeased with such limits.

"Then where could we possibly go?" She asked, now glaring at the passing streets before her.

"How about we check into the hotel and have the chef make you whatever your heart desires?" He asked, his words like a pacifier, urging her to be pleased.

She was easily lulled. "Alright, Daddy. But he better know how to properly sear a duck!"

-------

"_I have fine memories of meals with my father. My father enjoyed a good plate of food, the best or nothing was his motto. He believed the best could be discovered, and he often exploited it, gaining an idea when discovering a new chef. This is how he ended up with so many restaurants, he built what he would've enjoyed and that made him successful. He kept the same philosophy with his family. It was the best or nothing for us." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

"How was the duck?" Her father asked when she finally dabbed her napkin over her lips. He himself hardly ate, which worried her a bit since her father _loved_ duck nearly as much as she did. He seemed satisfied with pushing around the food in his plate and drinking more dirty water. Mommy wouldn't let him get away with that.

"A bit dry but perfect on the salt," she decided. Another ghost of a smile appeared on her father's hard face.

"You should be a food critic," he murmured, and her mouth twisted.

"Like Mr. Humphrey?"

Her father cringed. "Fair terms, forget the sad life of a food journalist."

"And he's fat, Daddy," she pointed out, nodding her head.

"Who told you that?" Her father chuckled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I assessed it myself during Thanksgiving this year," she explained to him. "He was standing next to Jenny, and in comparative terms, he was fat."

"Next to Jenny Humphrey, even Twiggy would be fat, Ilsa," he full out laughed, and Ilsa beamed at him, pleased that she was able to amuse him so. Prince Albert sat on his seat, propped with her small luggage and ignoring his food. She sent him a warming look.

"I'm going to shower. Stay put, will you?" He stood from his chair and left the room before Ilsa could point out that he had eaten nothing at all. Ilsa herself had already bathed; she was now in her pajamas and fluffy pink socks. Her hair had been braided by a maid who smelled like old clothes. Her braids weren't nearly as great as Mommy's or Dorota's. So Ilsa had to fix them herself. She tied white ribbons on the ends and caked on lotion on her face like her mother did at night.

After Prince Albert was properly chastised for not eating his dinner, she pulled out the little suitcase that Dorota had packed with her favorite things and took out her favorite book in the whole wide world.

'Little Red Riding Hood'

She closed her bag and placed it with the rest of their things, climbing on to the bed she and her father would share and placing the book neatly on his pillow. A sign that he was required to read to her in order to get her to sleep.

She heard the shower still running, and her eyes reluctantly started to nod off. It had been a long day and a violent need for her mother took over. She felt so alone in the fancy room and large white bed. She tried to remember the last memories she had of her. Her mother had been sad lately… She had also been sick before that. She had been in the hospital for some days and no one would let Ilsa see her. She wouldn't stop crying, so her father finally came to pick her up from her Grandma Lily's house and took her to the hospital. Her Aunt Serena, Uncle Eric, Uncle Nate, Grandma Eleanor, Grandpa Cyrus and Grandpa Harold were all at the hospital, but none of them were happy or excited to see her. They didn't smile or shower her with gifts and stories. There was a lot of sadness.

When her father had finally carried her to the room where her mother was, her mother lay pale and asleep on an ugly bed, and there were machines that made funny noises and people dressed in pink clothing that kept coming in and out of her room. She sat on her father's lap for a while as they watched her mommy sleep. Her mother didn't look like she usually did; she looked sick, and this made Ilsa cry. But her crying must've helped her mommy because it woke her up, and when her mommy saw her she smiled a tiny smile that reached her eyes.

"_Baby," her mother had whispered, and Ilsa quickly climbed on the bed with the help of her father. She wore her pink tutu that day as she had been a fairy princess that morning._

"_Mommy, are you sick?" Ilsa asked her, laying her head on her shoulder._

"_Just a little bit, but I will fine soon," her mother assured her, and before they could talk more, Mommy fell asleep and her father took her out of her mother's warm arms, leaving her to cry quietly into his chest. She had been handed off then to her Uncle Eric, who took her back to Grandma Lily's house._

A few days later her mommy was back home, but Ilsa wasn't allowed to run or make loud noises. A lot of people came and left the house during that week, and hardly any of them brought her gifts or toys. Ilsa didn't realize anything was wrong until she walked by the blue room one day. The blue room was being re-painted white, and when she tried to stop the painters by explaining loudly to them that this room was to be her baby brother's room, Dorota had come and pulled her out and told her to be quiet. Then Auntie Serena has explained that the baby brother wasn't coming. Ilsa cried for a little bit because she had been _promised_ a baby brother, her mother and father had _promised_ one after she demanded it. When she was allowed to see her mommy, she found her so sad that she felt bad demanding the baby brother. Maybe Mommy was sad too that they weren't getting a baby brother. Maybe Mommy really wanted it, too. Maybe Mommy cried a bit too.

A few weeks went by, and Daddy went back to work, and she was left with a very sad mommy who would not put on pretty dresses or do her hair. She even yelled at Ilsa one day when she found her playing with her fine Italian shoes. When Ilsa cried, Mommy felt bad and held her and told her she was sorry over and over. Ilsa forgot all about it and became happy once more when they had a little tea party that afternoon. Despite Mommy being dressed in her robe with a sad look on her face, Ilsa thought they had a great time, indeed!

And then one night, after Ilsa had been put to bed and both her parents thought she was asleep, she crept out of her bed in search of a cranberry white chocolate cookie from a fresh batch she _knew_ Dorota had baked. That was when she heard some yelling coming from her parent's bedroom. She had witnessed fights between her parents, but those were usually fixed quite quickly. Daddy would bring Mommy flowers or jewelry, and they would spend a lot of time making funny noises behind the door and giggling.

"_Tell me how to help, Blair, because I don't know how!" Her daddy yelled, and Ilsa clutched Prince Albert closer to her chest._

"_You can't help, Chuck. You can't fix this. You can't fix me!" Her mother yelled back._

"_Oh, you want me to just give up, then? Give up on our life? Our marriage?" Her father snapped back, and Ilsa covered Prince Albert's ears so he wouldn't be so scared. Her mother was silent, but she heard her closing her closet angrily. "Oh, don't do this, Blair. Don't fucking do this!"_

_Ilsa gasped at his words. He said a naughty word!_

"_Do what?" Her mother snarled._

"_Pretend – pretend everything is just fine!" Her father yelled._

"_I can't pretend, Chuck! You can pretend, because you didn't see him." Now her mother was sobbing loudly. "You didn't see his tiny b-body, you didn't! I __saw__ him, I saw my baby…"Her mother wailed loudly, and Ilsa could tell her father was holding her mother by the way her words were muffled. "… I couldn't save him, I couldn't…"_

_Her father was silent, and Ilsa didn't know if he was also crying because the noises were muffled then. She fell asleep there, curled by her parent's door with Prince Albert on her. In the morning, her father picked her up and placed her in bed with her mother, who was also asleep. He left for work that day and didn't even say goodbye to Ilsa. Her mother spent the day with her, mostly in bed watching old movies, so Ilsa thought that everything was fine. Wasn't it all fine? Didn't Mommy say that sometimes you needed a good cry?_

That was the night she left, and Ilsa still didn't understand why. Her mommy had even read her 'Little Red Riding Hood' that day.

Ilsa tried to stay awake to wait for her father, but the fact was that Prince Albert was very very tired indeed and fell asleep curled into a ball above the sheets. When her father came out of the shower, he tucked her under the covers to make sure she was warm and turned off the light. He went back to the living area and drank more and more dirty water until he too fell asleep.

"_Was my father a drinker? Sure, one could say so. But then again we're not a normal sort of people. One doesn't comprehend that unless one was born and raised in the Upper East Side. One could say that a person wasn't a true Upper East Sider until one became a drinker. Daddy was just keeping up with tradition, that's what my mother used to say." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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Tbc

a/n: I hope this explains a bit more as to why Blair left, you're also welcomed to ask me questions, check out my profile, I will answer to the best that I can without spoiling the story. I also wont be able to post this in my LJ for a minute because I'm still traveling :(

Thank you once more for all the feedback, you guys are so very lovely in your comments. A lot of love from me.


	4. Chapter 3: My Father, The Hero

**The Little Princess**

By Isabelle Hernandez

Rating: R, mature later chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Gossip Girl and much less Chuck and Blair. Sadly.

Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her.

A/N: It came to me in a dream, and I decided to write it down. Thank you to my beta, Tati.

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**Chapter 3: My Father, The Hero**

"_It was always a treat to watch my parents together when they believed no one was watching. As a child, I saw theirs as a romantic fairytale love in which my mother was the gentle princess and my father the dashing prince. When I grew up, I knew better. Yet somehow the real story was much more romantic." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

The incessant knocking on the door was what woke Ilsa. Already upset that her windows were not covered, the fact that the smell of Dorota's good oatmeal was not in the air annoyed her even more. Granted, little Ilsa was just not a morning person. She took after her mother that way. She always wanted to lounge on the bed, snug under the covers until Dorota or her father woke her. If it were up to her and her mother, they would sleep until noon. And many times they had.

"Get the door, Prince Albert…" She mumbled to the frog that was now stuffed and rolled in between the sheets. Prince Albert was even less of a morning person than she was and flat out refused to get the door, so little Ilsa groaned, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. One of the ribbons in her hair was missing and she had woken with hiccups.

The knocking continued until finally Ilsa got off the bed and noticed her father's side was empty. This was a common occurrence, as he always awoke before her go to his office to pour over paperwork and nurse a cup of coffee. He would look up at her and smile, 'almost slept the morning away, just like your mother.'

She padded into the adjoining room, where the living area lay, and that was when she spotted her father. Still in a white robe, hair dried haphazardly, an empty glass in his hand and a sad frown on his lips. Her daddy _never_ slept this late. He must be sick, she realized. That was quite all right. She remembered when Mommy had to take care of sick Daddy. He stayed in bed and complained about everything, and she helped mommy bring him soup and wet cloths. No one was even mad at her when she spilled some orange juice on her mother's ivory Persian carpe, she had afterall tried to make it without dropping anything. Ilsa quickly ran with Prince Albert to the door and found a room service attendance with a rolling cart filled with food. The young man looked dubiously at the small girl.

"We'll take it in the corner, thanks. And don't make any noise or you'll wake up my daddy," she told him in her most authoritative voice.

The man blinked, attempting to understand exactly what the child was saying. He must have not been used to smart little girls, Prince Albert mentioned, and Ilsa agreed. Yet he did exactly as he had been told, rolling the cart to the corner and quietly showing her quietly the contents, earning an approving nod from her. He then turned and took the dinner cart with him. Ilsa grabbed her father's wallet from a small table, took out $50 and handed it presumptuously to the man, who smiled gratefully and bid her good day.

"Easy. Right, Prince Albert?" The frog agreed.

She ran to the breakfast, serving her father some orange juice in a cup. She set Prince Albert before some eggs and warned him to eat them all or there would be a spanking with a pencil. Prince Albert listened this time and started eating right away. She then took the juice, determined not to have it spill this time and walked it to where her father lay.

"Daddy?" She whispered, close to his face. Her father mumbled her mother's name in his sleep. "Daddy, drink your orange juice, or you'll never get better."

When he didn't respond, she sighed and placed the glass on the floor, running to get a pencil. Like her mother did to her when she had a fever, she promptly stuck the pencil in his mouth, waking up her father for good.

Chuck, stunned, started stewing on the pencil.

Ilsa beamed back at him. "I think you have a temperature, but don't worry, I brought you orange juice."

Her father slowly took the pencil out of his mouth and tossed it behind him. Ilsa took that as a cue to bring him the orange juice. Carefully, she picked it up and offered it to him. Her father looked over her, still avoiding her eyes.

"What time is it?" He asked, grabbing the juice out of her tiny hands before she could drop it.

Ilsa bit her lip, she wasn't very good at reading time, but her mommy had been helping her do it.

"Sorry," he murmured, realizing who he was asking. He reached for his cell phone and groaned. "9:30…"

"It's 9:30," Ilsa repeated, happy at being able to convey this information. "You were asleep."

"Where did you get the orange juice?" He inquired, taking a sip.

"From the man who brought the food…" She pointed to the tray, and her father's eyes widened.

"You opened the door to a stranger?" He asked darkly.

Ilsa felt a little ashamed, realizing that she was not allowed to talk to strangers, take rides from strangers or open doors to strangers.

"Oops…" She said. "I thought you were sick, and I wanted to take care of you."

Her father sighed, running his hand over his hair, his wedding band sparkling prettily in the morning sun. He turned, finally really looked at her. "Come here."

And she climbed onto his lap, laying her hand on his chest and sighing happily.

"I'm sorry I didn't wake up… I'll never do that again," he assured her. "I was just…"

"Sad," the perceptive little girl nodded. "I know."

Her father was quiet for a while, yet she could sense the tension in him slowly drifting away. "We love you very much. You know that, don't you, Ilsa?"

By 'we,' the little girl knew very well that he meant also her mother so she nodded slowly. "I know."

"We're just sad, that's all." He assured her.

"Are we sad because we didn't get the baby brother?" Ilsa finally asked, though she had promised Aunt Serena that she wouldn't mention the baby brother.

The tension in him resurfaced, and she felt it, felt it so much that she sat up and looked over her father's sharp angles. Her father was the most handsome man she knew, he was tall and brave and gave kisses without being asked.

"I wasn't supposed to mention the baby brother, was I?" She whispered, touching her father's slight stubble. He hadn't shaved in a few days.

"Who told you that?" He whispered, his eyes inquisitive.

"Auntie Serena," she explained. "She said it was best not to say anything, and that's why the blue room got painted white."

Her father sighed, taking a deep breath and releasing it. His breath smelled funny, and she scrunched up her nose.

"Yes. That's why we're sad, princess. We…" He gulped, looking away. "… We really wanted the baby brother…" Ilsa watched the myriad of emotions go through her father's face. "… And we're sad he didn't come."

Ilsa slowly nodded. "Mommy's very sad too, isn't she?" She played with the robe by his neck. "That's why she left."

All her father did was nod.

They ate their breakfast in relative silence, and she noticed that her father finally eating something, having some eggs and toast while she made a little mountain out of her berries and then munched on them happily. Her father made her eat her pancakes, though they weren't as delicious as Dorota's banana nut ones. A maid came and helped her get ready, and this time she opted for a wool royal blue coat with round silver buttons and a matching hat. Her mother had the same one. Prince Albert also got a change of cape; he looked his best in yellow.

While her father fixed his cufflinks another knock came to the door. Ilsa was ready to answer it, but she received a warning look from her father and quickly hid behind the sofa, peeking out to see who it could be.

She scoffed. It was the greasy man, Parker. In one hand, he held a manila folder. In the other, he smoked a cigarette.

"Put that out. My daughter's here," her father commanded, and the man glared at her once more before stomping the bud out on the fine carpet. Ilsa scowled at him. Her father grabbed the manila folder and turned to her. "Give us a minute, Ilsa. Go play with Prince Albert in the bedroom."

Ilsa wanted very much to stomp her foot and demand to stay and hear the adult conversation, but her father's look left no room for questioning. She pouted and took Prince Albert with her to the room, closing the door behind her and walking to the bed. She sat on the bed, her skirt flaring around her as her little feet dangled off it.

"Once we find Mommy, we will have a proper tea party with lady fingers, lemon tart and hibiscus tea," she explained to him. "Don't worry; I will make sure you get milk."

When she was tired of waiting, she decided to do a naughty thing. Now, Ilsa realized that she had promised daddy that she would be the best girl ever, but Mommy said that sometimes you had to be bad to be good. She usually said this when Ilsa was being shipped off to her Aunt Serena's house while mommy wore a silky robe and painted her lips red. She wondered what sort of naughty things Mommy did.

Taking her mother's advice, Ilsa tiptoed to the little crack in the door. She leaned forward, peered out the door, and saw the man named Parker pacing before her father.

"Jumping on a plane and searching for her bread crumbs is hardly the way to conduct an investigation," the man said angrily.

"She's not hiding from me, Parker. She's running away," her father clarified, going over the papers he was holding.

"Shouldn't we let her settle? Make her think you stopped looking for her?"

"You obviously don't know my wife," her father ground out.

"Since you're the Mrs. Bass expert, why don't you predict the next place she will go?" Parker snarled.

Her father took a deep breath and set down the papers. "Enough. Are you helping me find my wife or not?"

"The kid's slowing us down. We could've been halfway to London by now," Parker spat, and this made her father glare at him angrily.

"I couldn't leave her behind, she'd be too upset –"

"If you both didn't baby her so much, then she wouldn't cry every time she wants something –"

"If you say one more word about my daughter or my wife that doesn't have to do with this investigation, I will personally see to it that you don't work for the rest of your life, am I making myself clear?" Her father was standing now and, despite the height difference, he was certainly the more intimidating of the two. Ilsa sported a proud smile on her face, clearly pleased that her father was such a fighter.

Parker gulped and then nodded. "London it is."

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"_London, such a rainy city. When I was very young, I wasn't allowed to walk in the streets unless my mother or father firmly held my hand. My Uncle Nate once took me to get chips, and he didn't hold my hand. I fell and scraped my knee and, from then on, my mother refused to leave Uncle Nate alone with me until he had his own children many years later." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

The first time Ilsa Bass had spotted a red double-decker bus in London, she explicitly told her father that she wanted one. She wanted one more than she wanted a pony. But when her mother told her that people had been known to fall from them and perish, she quickly changed her mind and demanded a pony once more.

"Why does it always rain in London, Daddy?" Ilsa asked her father, who was sitting next to her in the limo.

Her father stared hard out of the window, his face a shadowed mask and his brow furrowed with worry. He looked older, Ilsa thought.

"Is it because it's sad?" Ilsa wondered out loud when her father didn't immediately reply, lost in his own sad world. "Can a city be sad?"

"Yes, Ilsa. It cries because it's sad," he finally replied, his words little tiny droplets of truth.

Ilsa felt badly for such a sad city, despite how lovely the people talked there, the city was always sad.

"Is it ever happy, Daddy?" Ilsa inquired.

"Maybe… maybe in the future," he replied, and his voice was so distant that Ilsa wondered if it belonged to her father at all.

Parker, sitting in the front and overhearing the conversation, finally interrupted it, closing his cell phone and turning to her father. Ilsa eyed him hard, she didn't like or trust the man.

"She's checking out as we speak," he announced urgently.

Her father's body shot up. "Go faster, God dammit!"

Ilsa gasped. Her daddy was not allowed to say bad words, but he looked so desperate that she decided not to mention it. She did explain to Prince Albert that naughty words ought not to be used. He understood and made a mental note never to say them himself.

Her father's body was rigid as he harried the driver, who didn't seem to appreciate it one bit.

"We'll get there, we'll get there," Parker assured her father, but Ilsa could tell from the intensity in her father's eyes that he was not consoled by the man's words. From what she could gather, no one but her actual mother would possibly calm her father.

Ilsa pressed her face into Prince Albert's fur and whispered a plea that they would find her mommy. She was actually tired of the travel, though she would _never_ admit it to her father, as he was likely to ship her off to Aunt Serena. Plus, then Mr. Parker would be right – she would be slowing them down. She was still sad that they had visited such wonderful places and she hadn't been able to see the museums or the parks. Trips usually involved all sorts of sightseeing or perhaps some evenings at lovely restaurants, where one would have to order their meals in the native tongue. This trip had involved none of that. Here, sitting in the back of the limousine, Ilsa began to regret her decision to beg to come along.

A week or two with Aunt Serena wouldn't have been that bad. They would've visited the park plenty, fed the ducks, had brunch and drank orange juice from long champagne goblets. They would've watched movies, painted their toes and had excellent tea parties using her Grandma Lily's fine china. She bet they would've even gone to visit her grandmother's shop where everyone fawned all over her. They usually gave her new headbands or mentioned how pretty she looked in her new coat. Her Uncle Nate would've taken her to see another hockey game, though she would've fallen asleep during it despite the noise and the confusion. He would've taken her on a ride through Central Park in a buggy, and that she _loved_ doing. Her Uncle Eric would take her to a play or the ballet and would dress her up in a lovely gold dress. He would be her date, and she would enjoy the way the men looked on her handsome uncle, wishing they were her. Her Grandma Lily would take her to the zoo, and even Mr. Humphrey would tell her how pretty she looked and if she wanted him to sing her a song. She would listen no matter how bad he was at it, because she wasn't about to be rude. A few weeks without her parents would've been fine. She would've been fine.

But then she thought… Who would've checked daddy's temperature when he was sick? Who would've made him eat breakfast? Who would've reminded him of everything that mommy had said? And Prince Albert… Prince Albert would've gotten bored and started to miss her parents just as much as she would've. Yes… It was better she came along. Who would take care of Daddy, then? Certainly _not_ this Parker person. Who else if not Ilsa Bass?

The limo took many sharp turns and though Prince Albert was scared and worried, he never said a word. He didn't want to bother Daddy since Daddy was so desperate to find Mommy. She couldn't blame him. She wasn't as good a nurse as Mommy was. Mommy even had the nurse outfit, tucked firmly in the back of the closet. Ilsa had found it one day as she searched for black pearls to complete her dress-up look.

They came to a sudden halt and her father literally jumped out of the moving car, into the pouring rain, making Ilsa scream after him. She quickly scampered out of her seat to follow him along with Parker, but her father yelled over his shoulder;

"Watch her!" He screamed and, before Ilsa knew it, hands grabbed her. Hands that were not her mommy or her daddy, and this made her scream loudly. She was wet and frightened.

The evil Parker man leaned into her ear. "Be quiet, you brat! You can pull that with your parents, but not with me!"

So Ilsa did the one thing her Aunt Serena had taught her to get away from a stranger. She raised her shiny black heel - made specifically for her in Italy – to imitate her mommy's shoes and she stomped it as hard as she could on Parker's tennis shoe-clad foot.

She also bit his hand for good measure, and the man went hoping and howling, immediately letting her go.

"You fucking brat!" He cried after her, but she ignored him, speeding by at full run after her father. She had seen him go into the very tall building. People were stopping to stare at her, some asking her where her mother was, but she kept running until she spotted her father in the distance. He was barking something to a girl in the front desk, who handed him a paper with a shaky hand. He read it quickly and, before Ilsa could reach him, he sped off towards the elevators.

"Daddy!" She cried after him, her little legs tired of running through the lobby. She was almost there, nearly reaching the elevator before an arm grabbed her.

"Wait a minute, wait! Where are your parents?" A man demanded of her.

It was then that Ilsa realized she was crying, large salty tears were marring her face and she couldn't control them.

"Let me go! Let me go! Daddy!" She cried towards the elevators. "My daddy will _hurt_ you so let me go!"

The man, realizing he could get in big trouble if he kept holding the screaming child, let go of her arm, allowing Ilsa to run towards the elevators. The doors were already closed, and she let out a frustrated cry. She watched the elevator buttons on the top of the doors. The numbers went to seventeen and stopped there. She ignored the people who stared at her and shoved past them into an empty and open elevator, quickly pressing the number seventeen though she was hardly able to reach it. She stood on her tiptoes and finally lit it up.

"Don't worry, Prince Albert, everything is going to be alright. Prince Albert, don't worry. Don't worry. Don't worry," she continued petting the frog's fur, not noticing that it was wet and damp either from her tears or the rain.

When number seventeen finally arrived, the door opened ominously. Little Ilsa in her royal blue coat stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway. An endless row of doors lay before her, and she gulped. She'd never been by herself like this before. Her mommy or daddy was always with her, if not someone else, and she felt afraid. Prince Albert was also afraid; he'd had enough adventure to last him for a while.

She didn't know where her daddy had gone. She didn't know where to find him. She was alone and scared that she might _never_ find her daddy. Then someone would find her and put her in an orphanage where they served bad food and made her work day in and day out like Anastasia. Anastasia was also a princess who had lost her daddy. She clutched her frog more tightly and began walking.

Some doors were silent; some had laughter or a TV playing loudly behind them. But none were opened. She kept walking, walking until it seemed she would reach the end of the world and never ever find again her daddy.

That thought alone scared her most of all. A life as a forgotten princess was worse than any other life.

But she needed to be brave; she needed to be brave like she promised her father she would be. And just when little Ilsa was about to give up every hope of finding her father, the door at the very end caught her attention.

It was _slightly_ opened. Her little feet, encased in black leather, led her to the large red door. She gulped loudly and leaned forward, grasping the brass handle in her small hand and pushing it forward.

She paused before the room she saw before her. It was neat, large and elegant. Just like her mother has always kept their home. And then _something_ happened that made Ilsa nearly burst inside.

She _smelled_ her mother's perfume.

"Mommy!" She ran inside, but it was still empty. Empty and alone, just like Ilsa felt. Yet she was _surrounded_ by her mother's essence. She ran through the room and finally ended up in a doorway to the bedroom. Before she could enter, her father rushed beside her, not even seeing her.

"Blair!" He cried, and Ilsa felt so sad. Couldn't her father see her mother was not there? Her mother had left already. Her mother was gone.

It was as if Ilsa's thoughts went to her father, and he collapsed on the still-unmade bed. Ilsa watched with wide eyes as her father grabbed the pillow, which had presumably been used that night by her mother, and pressed it firmly against his nose.

He inhaled her mother's scent and then yanked the sheets out of the bed, wrapping himself in them, until he too was covered with her mother's essence. He lay on the bed, still and unmoving, staring out towards the window. Staring into nothingness.

Ilsa set Prince Albert down on the floor and slowly walked to her father, her little heart hammering in her chest. She walked until she faced him, and saw that his face was now marred with tears.

She had never seen her father cry. Thinking back, he had never cried when her mother had been in the hospital; he had never cried when they didn't get the baby brother. He had simply never cried.

Didn't mommy say that sometimes you needed a good cry?

Ilsa, understanding that her father's sadness had consumed him, leaned forward and pecked his cheek, her little hands caressing his face.

"Don't worry, Daddy. We'll find Mommy," she whispered. "We'll find her, she'll be found when you least expect it."

His face remained emotionless as the tears continued to pour, so she kept kissing his face, combing back his hair and laying her cheek against his. He finally blinked, as if realizing she was there and pulled her to him, spooning her onto him and burying his nose into her hair.

"Mommy says that sometimes you need a good cry," she told him softly.

"Your mother is always right," he replied quietly after a long, long, long while.

"_The saddest moment in a child's life is when they realize their parents are human, just like them. That they can cry, hurt and be lost, just like them. That's the moment we really grow up because we realize that eventually we will have to care for them." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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Tbc

Thank you all once more for your continuous support!


	5. Chapter 4: The Bed My Mother Made

**The Little Princess**

By Isabelle Hernandez

Rating: R, mature later chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Gossip Girl and much less Chuck and Blair. Sadly.

Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her.

A/N: It came to me in a dream, and I decided to write it down. Thank you to my beta, Tati.

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**Chapter 4: The Bed My Mother Made**

"_Those who say my mother lived a sad life never really knew her. To the world she portrayed one thing, but in reality she was another. We made her very happy, and I could hardly remember days when she was sad or angry. Many more said that my parent's marriage was based on sex. Those knew them even less." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

As Ilsa allowed her father to compose himself, she found an abandoned piece of paper on the floor by Prince Albert. She quickly realized it was hotel stationary, and it was the note the women in the front desk had handed to her father. A note written, it seemed, by her mother.

Stealing a glance at her father who was fixing his tie and hair and quickly stuffed the note into her coat pocket just in time for her father to turn to her and smile warmly.

"You've abandoned Prince Albert," he noticed. The frog lay haphazardly on the floor, his cape strewn around him.

"He's getting heavy," Ilsa mentioned, and her father gave her a full smile.

"Where did you leave Mr. Parker?" Her father inquired.

"I bit him and stomped on his toe," Ilsa replied quite naturally, and her father's eyes bugged ever so slightly.

"Who taught you how to do that?" Her father asked, picking her and Prince Albert up.

"Aunt Serena said to use it to fend off strangers," Ilsa explained as they walked on out of the abandoned room.

"Mr. Parker is not a stranger, Ilsa," Chuck explained patiently.

"He tried to grab me, Daddy, and you told him to 'watch me'," she countered, having pristine memory. "Last I checked, watching had nothing to do with touching."

Her father laughed, kissing her cheek. "When did you get so smart?"

"Well, Mommy said that she listened to a lot of Beethoven when I was in her belly." She frowned. "How did I get in her belly, Daddy?"

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Ilsa was housed under a large red umbrella with white daisies on it that the driver held for her so that Prince Albert wouldn't get wet. Prince Albert really disliked getting wet. In fact, he abhorred it.

Her father walked back to her in her rain after ripping Parker a new one, leaving the man angrily glaring at the small girl. Ilsa ignored him, sniffing her nose in the air.

"Are we going home now, Daddy?" Ilsa asked, tugging at his coat.

She watched as her father's jaw worked mechanically in his face, mulling over what he needed to do. The rain splattered on as London kept crying and matting his hair on his face. She saw the back and forth thought process. Go back home or keep searching for Mommy.

She finally sighed. "We don't have to, Daddy. Home is not home without Mommy."

Her father turned to look down at his small daughter and smiled. "Let's get you out of the rain, your mother would kill me."

And so little Ilsa gave him Prince Albert so he could tuck the frog safely in his large coat, and then he picked her up and took her to the limo while the driver faithfully kept them dry in the rain.

Ilsa made quite an impression when people first saw her. Many commented that she looked like a live doll. Thick hair that curled naturally around her face, very pale blemish-free skin that glowed slightly, round brown eyes and the longest lashes ever seen on a child. When she batted her eyes at her father, her aunt joked that they lured him to her wishes. He succumbed to them, of course. She had perfectly pouty and full lips, not too big, not too thin, but just right and perfectly shaped. They were a lovely mauve shade. Her mother mentioned to Grandma Eleanor that when she grew up and was allowed to wear makeup, she could do with a nice sheer gloss to accentuate them. Her father had put in at the time that Ilsa was not growing up and most definitely not wearing makeup.

Being the only child in a group of rich adults made her the target for incessant spoiling. Her closet was as large as her parents', and everyone knows what fashionistas they were. Her shoes, usually made to order, were available in all makes and colors. She had a repertoire of accessories: rain gear, snow gear, summer gear, scarves, gloves, stockings, pajamas, hats, capes – anything else a child could or couldn't want. She also had a few outfits that mirrored her mother's; the pair would wear them together for special occasions like tea with Grandma Lily in December, when her father liked to be alone for a few days.

When little Ilsa was taken to New York Fashion week or Paris Fashion Week with her Grandmother, designers would shower her with gifts. Chuck Bass himself had to intervene when Elton John wanted to be her godfather. When she was born, the paparazzi followed her and her mother on visits to the park. Yet once her daddy had a few words behind closed doors with the majority of media executives, no one would buy the pictures the paparazzi took and slowly but surely the interest died. Now Mommy and Ilsa could make as many trips to the park as Ilsa wanted and no one bothered them.

It was easy to understand how often she turned heads when she entered a place with her parents. Still dressed in her striking royal blue coat, matching hat and shiny leather shoes, Ilsa was led by her father into the lobby of his London hotel. The staff quickly scurried about, not expecting the owner to show up for what they presumed would be a surprise check-up.

"Mr. Bass, we didn't expect you," the hotel manager quickly walked to him, keeping up with her father's large steps as Ilsa looked up at the man with a sharp suit and an even sharper jaw. "Should we arrange a room for you?"

"Yes, only for a night," her father commanded, never pausing in his steps as he walked directly to the hotel's restaurant, _Bouley_, which was a duplicate of the one he had bought out in New York.

The staff scrambled to make sure he got the best table despite it being the height of lunchtime rush. He helped Ilsa take off her coat, and she beamed up at him as he slid next to her in the semi-rounded booth.

"I love Bouley, Daddy, you know this," Ilsa affirmed as a waitress poured him his favorite wine.

"I know, Princess," he replied after he set his wine down. Ilsa studied her father's profile and the way he still looked distant and alone despite having her so very close.

"Where are we going now?" She asked timidly once her own warm milk with honey had been set down and she had stirred it dutifully. Prince Albert had ordered a small Ginger Ale, his very favorite.

Another sip of wine and a spoonful of the porcini flan later, he finally replied, "France."

"To the chateau?" She sat up on her seat.

"_Oui_," he replied, smiling a bit.

"_Grand-père Harold_?" She asked, clearly excited.

He nodded slowly. "You'd like that?"

Ilsa smiled wider than her little face could hold. _Of course_ she loved seeing her Grandfather, he was the most loving and tender person in the earth (after her mother). He would tell her all sorts of stories. She even owned a cat, a dog and a swan in his home. She couldn't contain the excitement in her; it bubbled out of her. For a moment, she even forgot that her mother was missing.

"We'll leave after a nice long nap, ok?" He tried.

"But I'm not tired, Daddy," Ilsa insisted.

Her father drank some more wine. "But Joe needs a nap, and Daddy might need one, too…"

Ilsa nodded. "If you need one, Daddy, I will make sure you sleep."

The afternoon went as followed: the grand room Chuck had requested was set up. When they arrived, the customary peonies in it. Ilsa pulled her father to the bedroom as he stared at the flowers with a strange look in his face. They were one of her mother's favorite, and the staff wasn't aware of anything wrong. But Ilsa was. She made sure her father sat in bed and when she had really hard time of removing his tie, he finally snapped out of his stupor and pulled it off himself.

He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, as Prince Albert and Ilsa watched on. Daddy was apparently very tired. He slowly closed his eyes and Ilsa, getting quickly bored with jumping on the sofa, slipped out of her shiny black shoes and crawled into bed with him. With Prince Albert neatly stuffed under her chin, she lay her small head on her father's chest and curled her legs up under her. Daddy snored when he slept, she thought, as she finally drifted off to sleep.

In her dreams, Ilsa saw many things. Often she would tell her Dorota or her mother about them. She often dreamt of fields of flowers and of swings and ponds. She would dream about running through these valleys in a white lace dress, Prince Albert holding her hand as her brown curls cascaded down her small back. They were pleasant dreams, sunny dreams, good dreams. Yet this time, when she dreamt, she dreamt of running in a rainy storm and she didn't like it, then suddenly invisible hands grabbed at her and she began to shout for her parents as loud as she could.

That's how she woke her father, startling him with her cries. He, realizing she was having a bad dream, woke her and held her as she cried furiously. When she started pleading for her mother, he became suspiciously quiet.

All children need their mothers. Not all get them and some get them for a little while. But just because they don't get them doesn't mean they don't need them.

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"_My time spent in France was a sort of fairytale. We traveled there plenty, and still do, despite my grandfather having passed away. He left me his chateau, and I take my own children there now. When I traveled there with my parents, it was a true vacation. Father would lounge in his loose pants without a tie and enjoy the French sun and food. Mother would wear loose dresses that billowed in the wind, and sometimes they would disappear together and come back looking a bit rumpled. As a child, I accepted their tales of falling and rolling in the vineyard. As I teen, I told them that they needed to act their age. As an adult, I envied them." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

What was more fitting for France than an elegant silk and lace yellow dress? That's what Ilsa thought as she was helped into her clothing. A maid didn't help her this time; her father did. After helping her bathe, making sure she scrubbed her knees and behind her ears, he helped with her hair, which turned into a bit of a shouting match as Ilsa insisted on braids and her father was more familiar with un-doing them than doing them. He helped her brush her teeth, making her do it twice when she tried to speed through it. He ended up all wet. Then he chased her when she wanted to run in just her panties and stockings around the apartment, laughing while he tried to grab her. He wanted her in a warm dress and she wanted her yellow lace one, a present from her Uncle Nate that she wanted to show off to her Grandfather. A few strategically placed pouts later, she won the round. But she had to wear her thick coat, a caveat she reluctantly agreed to. Dressing with Daddy had been fun. He'd never done it before, and she felt different once it was over. Sure, he looked wet and annoyed, and she listened more to her mother than to him, but she thought he did pretty well. She had also told him so.

"I've never done this, have I?" He asked quietly.

"No, Daddy. Mommy, Aunt Serena or Dorota do it," she explained, twirling her dress for Prince Albert to see.

He picked her up and kissed her head. He whispered into her hair. "I'll do it more often, I promise."

"Mommy says you're very busy and important, Daddy. I understand," she said, squishing his cheeks together to make him do a fish face.

"I'll do it more often," he repeated, putting her down so he could change and she could dress Prince Albert accordingly. They didn't want Prince Albert to catch a cold.

Riding in the car from Paris and into the country, Ilsa stuffed herself next to her father. It was late at night by the time the car neared any country roads, and Ilsa was tired. She wanted the trip to be over so she could sleep in a bed. But she never voiced this to her father. She promised she would be a good girl, and good girls didn't complain about things as trivial as being tired of a long, wonderful trip with their father.

Her father had taken vacations with them, this was true. Yet… He would sometimes disappear and work an entire afternoon or have to leave halfway through the beach plans. Her mother would get a sad sort of look on her face, but quickly hide it and turn to build a sand castle with Ilsa or urge her to put on more sunblock.

As little girls went, Ilsa was smarter than the rest, and she recognized that her mother didn't like it that Daddy had to work so much. She didn't doubt that her daddy loved her mother very much, but sometimes… Sometimes she would overhear them talking loudly about his work, and it would always end with Daddy promising things to Mommy and Mommy getting flowers.

"Why haven't you worked these days, Daddy?" Ilsa asked quietly, as the stillness of the night surrounded. Parker had fallen asleep in the front seat.

"This is more important," he replied, pulling her closer and making sure she was warm. Prince Albert sighed, for he liked it when Daddy was this attentive to them.

Ilsa knew the road to her Grandfather's chateau well, so when she spotted the house in the distance, she quickly started bouncing up and down on her seat while her father begged her to settle down.

"Remember how you promised you would listen to me?" He asked carefully.

"Yes, Daddy. I promised to be a good girl," she nodded.

"When we arrive, I need you to stay in the car. I need to speak to your grandfather quickly before you get down. Do you understand?" He requested quietly.

Ilsa bit her lip, tears filling her eyes as if on cue.

"Adult talk, Ilsa, remember?" He reprimanded her gently.

Adult talk. She _hated_ adult talk. Adult talk simply meant that big people didn't want children to hear what they were saying. She hated being out of the equation, most especially when it came to her father. She furrowed her small brows and pouted.

"But Daddy –"

"Ilsa," the warning tone appeared swiftly.

"But Mommy said –"

"No more 'Mommy' philosophy. I know quite well what you're doing," he said, but it didn't sound as mean as it would seem. He even kissed her forehead. Ilsa sighed. _Fine_. She'd stay and wait. She'd do it. She didn't like it, but she would do it.

It took all of her control to stay put in the car when her father stepped out and rang the doorbell. It was quiet in the car, Parker was now awake, and he would cast glances at her every once in a while.

Finally, the butler, Mr. Steves, opened her grandfather's door. Mr. Steves was a very flamboyant French artist who did more painting than butlering, but Grandpa Roman liked to watch him, so they kept him around.

Ilsa assured Prince Albert that all was fine, she also told him to stay still because he kept playing with all the gadgets in the car, making Parker glare at them even more often. She watched as her grandfather came into view, wearing a thick robe and looking at her father in surprise. She watched as the two men talked intently, sharing looks. Her grandfather sighed heavily and ran his hand over his face, leaning on the doorway and staring darkly at her father.

Finally, after some talk, her grandfather turned to the car and beamed a very happy smile.

"Ilsa!" He cried, and Ilsa took that as her cue to get out and run to her grandfather's open arms. She and Prince Albert toppled out of the car and ran as fast as her small feet could carry to her grandfather.

Grandfather Harold always smelled of fine cologne, pretzels and peppermint. Those smells would each remind her of him for many, many years.

"Granddaddy!" Ilsa cried, holding him tightly as he lifted her off the ground.

"Oh, my little Ilsa!" He whispered to her and twirled her around. Ilsa let out a squeal of excitement. It had been some weeks since she had seen her grandfather. The last time she had seen him, he had said goodbye after her mommy had been sick, and he had been so sad that he hardly played with Ilsa.

"I love you so very much, Granddaddy!" Ilsa pecked his face over and over as he laughed and took her inside, away from the cold. _This_ was the grandfather she loved.

"Oh, my princess, I love you even more!" Her grandfather cried. "Roman! Look what treat we have!"

And her Grandpa Roman walked in, also in a thick robe and with a smile on his face.

"Ilsa!" He cried happily.

"Grandpa Roman!" Ilsa wiggled out of her Granddaddy's arms and ran to Roman, letting him lift and twirl her. She got twirled a lot in the chateau; it was one of the best things about coming here.

"Oh, but look how very pretty you are, Princess!" He said to her.

"Daddy let me wear my yellow dress! Is it not _très belle?_" She inquired.

"Well, let us see!" Roman put her down and, between him and her Granddaddy, they helped her out of her coat. She twirled in front of them, showing off her dress, her shoes squeaking in the freshly waxed wood floors.

"Uncle Nate brought it for me all the way from Russia, is it not lovely?" She demanded.

Her Granddaddy turned her to inspect her back. "It is beautiful, my Ilsa! Now… who helped you with you dress?"

"My daddy did!" She showed them a toothy grin and the two men turned to stare at her father .

"Well, Charles, it seems you're better at unbuttoning than buttoning," her Granddaddy chuckled, fixing the mismatched buttons in the back of the dress. Her father walked forward, his face still showing no sign of amusement.

"Ilsa, Princess… Go find Cat and then bring him back so I can see him," her father told her, and Ilsa looked up at the men before her. From below, a child can see so much. They can see past a smile, past a frown, into what the person really is thinking. This is what is so special about children. They see from an angle adults often miss.

So Ilsa nodded and scampered off in the direction of the kitchen where Cat liked to squat undisturbed, usually sniffing for bits of tuna that would fall from the counter. Ilsa should've gone in and done as her father told her but her little curious head wanted too much, so she hid behind the door and pressed herself flat on the wall, inhaling sharply and sending Prince Albert a quieting glare.

Prince Albert loudly declared that he believed this to be a very bad idea and that they should listen to Father, who would be very upset if he found her there, eavesdropping on the 'adult talk' she was sure was happening with her gone. Why else would Daddy want to see Cat? He didn't particularly _like_ Cat.

Cat was very fond of her father's shoes and tried to take them whenever her father took them off. He would sit on them and hiss at anyone who came near them. Except for Mommy. Cat _loved_ Mommy, and Mommy explained that Cat was very, very old and territorial. He believed her father's shoes to be his and henceforth would claim them as such. When Daddy would finally put them on Cat would follow the shoes around and mewl pitifully for them as Daddy sat taking an important call or reading his paper. Ilsa could understand why her father was not particularly fond of Cat. That's how she knew he was lying to her.

So she pressed herself as flat as she could and made absolutely no noise at all, wanting the little bits of conversation.

"I shouldn't be but a few hours," her father said.

"This is insane, Charles. Have you lost your mind?" Her granddaddy hissed.

"Are we _sure_ she's in the city?" Grandpa Roman put in.

"I know my wife. I know her usual haunts… Plus, I have someone tracking her. An old business acquaintance of my father with questionable connections," he father explained, and Ilsa wondered if he meant Mr. Burke.

"Charles, pause and think. You can't drag Ilsa all over the world in search of her," Granddaddy said softly.

"I know –"

"Then you must know she wouldn't want this," Granddaddy urged. "She wouldn't want her baby taken from place to place like a gypsy!"

"Then she should've thought about that when she left," her father snapped, and Ilsa's bottom lip trembled because she had never heard her father sound so very angry.

"You're angry at her, I understand. Believe me, I do…"

"I'm fucking pissed at her, Harold. You don't know –"

"May I remind you also that you too have left in the past, Charles." Ilsa gasped, unable to believe that her daddy would ever leave her mommy. Not now or ever.

"And she _searched_ for me even when I told her _not_ to," her father yelled, and she heard him even out his breath. He was agitated and annoyed.

"Was she angry with you when you were finally found?" Her granddaddy inquired.

"No… But it's different… There's Ilsa now, and she doesn't understand why her mother would leave her," her father whispered. Ilsa could hardly hear it, but when she did, small little tears claimed her cheeks.

Her mommy wouldn't _ever_ leave her. Not for good, would she? She would never! Ilsa knew this; she believed it. She knew it to be true like she knew she was a princess!

"Do you _really_ think that Blair would abandon her only child forever? Do you think she would abandon _you_?" Granddaddy said softly. "You know you and Ilsa mean _everything_ to Blair. I've never seen her this happy… And _yes,_ what happened was horribly sad. I've never seen her more sad, but do you honestly think she's gone for good?"

"No…" Her father sounded distant and so very sad that even more tears prickled Ilsa's eyes. "I just…"

"You want her back _now_," her granddaddy finished.

"Yes. So I'm going to find her," Daddy replied, and Ilsa's heart felt elated. She honestly believed that he would find Mommy that very night. He would find her and bring her back to the chateau, where they would spend some days frolicking in the sun. Ilsa would be on her best behavior and help Mommy pick wild berries, and all the sadness would melt away. Daddy would spend afternoons fighting with Cat, and then pulling Mommy into their room for more 'adult talks' that Ilsa was not allowed to join. It would be great. Mommy and Daddy wouldn't be sad anymore, they would all be happy. It would all go back to be as before. Ilsa longed for those days; she wanted them more than she wanted the ivory fur coat she had spotted in Bendel's last week with Dorota.

"Charles –" Her granddaddy tried.

"Plus, if I find her… I don't want Ilsa to hear… I don't know how it'll go." There was a long silence, then finally her father spoke up once more. "Let me tell her. I just don't want her to be in another hotel she doesn't know."

Ilsa knew that was her cue. They would realize she had been missing for a while and wonder what she was up to, so she scampered with light feet to the kitchen and found Cat in his predictable position, spying on the kitchen trash can. The moment the feline spotted her he dashed the other way.

"Oh, don't mind him, he's antisocial, my Ilsa." From her behind her Granddaddy smiled at her, and then stared hard at her face.

"Ok," Ilsa said, realizing she had tear stains on her face. Granddaddy frowned and squatted before her.

"I wont be mad, you've got too much of your parents in you… I still remember when your mother was but a child…" He smiled faintly, and Ilsa found herself imitating his smile. "She would hide in our closet to listen to our talks… So it would be wrong to tell you you're being _bad_."

"Yours and Grandma Eleanor's?" Ilsa asked doubtfully softly. She still didn't quite understand the concept of divorce, all that she knew was that if it felt anything like what she was going through now, she never wanted it to happen.

"Yes," her granddaddy answered.

"But you got a divorce… What if Mommy and Daddy get one? What if they stop loving each other?" She asked, her voice small and vulnerable.

"Aww, my love, don't cry." Her grandfather pulled her to him. "For starters, your daddy is a bit different than me, Angel. And second, I highly doubt that your parents would ever stop loving one another. They have something special, you see…" he assured her, wiping her tears. "They wouldn't have created something as pretty as you otherwise." He smiled, and she returned it, hiding her face into his shoulder.

That's how her father found them. He quickly went to them, worry etched in his face. "I think it's time for her bed," Granddaddy said to her father. Ilsa peeked at her daddy and smiled a little.

"Do you mind staying with Grandpa for a few hours? I'll be back, and I'll get in bed with you," He promised. Ilsa studied him for a minute, and then finally leaned forward and pecked him, nuzzling her nose to his neck. It seemed to Ilsa that he needed a bit of love, too.

"I'll be back before you know it," he whispered. Ilsa nodded and laid her head back on her grandfather's shoulder as he took her upstairs while Grandpa Roman made her some warm milk with honey, her very favorite.

While Granddaddy went through her luggage to find her some pajamas, small Ilsa peeked out of the window of her room, which overlooked the road to the house. She watched as her father got back into the car with Parker and the driver took off. She pressed her small hand to the cold window and sighed, her breath smoking the window white.

"_When my father retired, he moved my mother to her chateau in the French countryside while my brother ran the company. They stayed there for a few years before mother demanded he take her back to the city. I think Daddy was ready to get back home and drink good scotch, and Mom was ready to meddle in our lives and order people around. I had never seen them happier than when they were back home. The city didn't feel the same without them." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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Tbc…

a/n: I wanted to address the concern that many of you had about Blair 'abandoning' her daughter. That's not what she was attempting to do, and I realize it's hard to grasp when it's told through Ilsa's perspective because she's so young she doesn't understand much so to a child it would _seem_ that her mother is gone forever. So this is why Harold is there as the voice of reason to Chuck, he knows his daughter wouldn't leave her child or him but Chuck is a bit desperate (and you will understand this in the very end of the story when you see what happened on the night that Ilsa heard only partial of the conversation) and wants her _now_. Blair has been gone for about 2 days only but to a child the time may seem much longer. I hope this helps some of the questions you may have. Also keep in mind that it's very hard for a child to understand the impact loosing a baby that advanced in a pregnancy can do to a mother; Blair was 7 months pregnant when she went into premature labor and the baby was born dead and Chuck was out of the country so she's a bit messed up because of this. Some would even say 'blinded by pain', the same way Chuck was when he lost his father.

As always, thank you so much for your feedback, I really appreciate it and am very pleased you are all enjoying the story.


	6. Chapter 5: Prince Albert Goes Home

**The Little Princess**

By Isabelle Hernandez

Rating: R, mature later chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Gossip Girl and much less Chuck and Blair. Sadly.

Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her.

A/N: It came to me in a dream, and I decided to write it down. Thank you to my beta, Tati.

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**Chapter 5: Prince Albert Goes Home**

"_I was a little bit mischievous as a child, so I naughty often found myself getting into trouble. I really did think I was a bad girl until I became older and understood many more things. Once my Grandmother (Eleanor) took me under her wing, and I shadowed her and developed the same talent as her, I learned many things about my parents that had been carefully hidden by my crafty and inventive mother. I wasn't bad. I was simply just like them." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

Once her grandfather had placed her in bed, read her a story and kissed her forehead, Ilsa waited until she heard him and Grandpa Roman go into their bedroom, murmuring more words about her mother. She opened her eyes and smiled as Prince Albert gave her props on the amazing actress she was becoming. Her mother would be proud. She pushed the cover off her small body and jumped from the bed, making her way to her toy luggage. The same one Dorota had placed by her side on the plane, the same one in which little Ilsa had stuffed her mother's note while her father filled her tub with water that morning in London. Under the moon's glow she pulled out the folded paper and looked over the strange words.

Prince Albert was still very rusty at reading – he needed glasses – and Ilsa herself could only write her name and the word 'red'. There was no 'red' in this letter. Ilsa frowned and then took out a small tin box that she used to hide her favorite rocks. Underneath all the rocks, there was a stash of $100 bills. With the tips of her little fingers, she pulled out five $100 bills and scrunched up her nose. Her mother said that paper money was a dirty thing, but she had still been given a lot of these in case of an emergency. Her mother was missing. She was out in the cold. Her father was gone. This was an emergency.

Holding Prince Albert tightly in one hand and the letter and money in the other, small Ilsa walked out of her grand nursery, past the pristine tea table, right by her collection of ceramic dolls and into the empty hallway. Her ears alert to any sounds by her grandfathers, she silently went to a part of the house she knew they wouldn't be.

Mr. Steves was born in the late 60's and always held high expectations from life, at least those were the tales he told Ms. Ilsa when she would stay at the house and spy him painting his horrible works of 'art'. Ilsa thought that her grandfathers kept Mr. Steves around because they felt bad for him and because (in Roman's own words) he looked like a type of 'Sean Connery'. Ilsa didn't know who this Mr. Connery person was; it couldn't have been the one her father admired in films because that one was a brunette and this Mr. Steves had a full head of white hair and moved a bit funny. He wasn't suave and mysterious like the one in her daddy's films. Nevertheless, Ilsa had spied a bit of a weakness in Mr. Steves that she thought she could use to get what she wanted.

He always mentioned needing money. Moaning about not being paid enough and how nobody wanted to buy his paintings. So Ilsa thought… if she bought a painting, perhaps he could help her a bit. Prince Albert also agreed that this was a great plan and needed to be put into action immediately.

Mr. Steves' quarters were in the very back of the estate, behind a little wooden door protecting his sanctuary. Ilsa knew this path well, for when both her parents and her grandfathers were making funny noises in their rooms, Ilsa go ask Steve for a nice glass of warm milk with honey. She knocked slightly on the door before her and, after a little while, Mr. Steves appeared dressed in nothing but very short shorts and a flower robe, smoking a cigarette and wearing eyeliner thicker than even Jenny Humphrey's.

"I wondered when you would sneak in here, Miss Ilsa," he said, stomping out his cigarette.

"Will it be the usual?" He asked, and Ilsa blinked, hiding the money behind her small back.

"I actually have a business proposition, Mr. Steves," she replied, mustering all the confidence she could manage.

Mr. Steves, a man who had seen what the majority of the world had to offer, raised a wrinkled brow in surprise. "The milk's free."

"I am not thirsty," she said. "I am interested in seeing your work."

Amused by such adult talk from such a tiny and innocent looking thing, Mr. Steve chuckled and opened the door to his abode. Ilsa thought he smelled like cheap perfume, but decided not to mention it. Her mother always said that if people stink, it's best to harry the business you havewith them and be done with it. This advice came right after a visit to a homeless center.

"Interested in my work, are you, little princess?" Mr. Steves swayed into the room the way her mother did, but with much less finesse.

"Yes," she agreed firmly. "I like art. Mommy lets me paint and paint, and then she sticks my paintings on the refrigerator so Daddy can see them if he comes home too late."

"Daddy is a busy man, I see," Mr. Steves walked towards the back of the room.

"He's _very_ important, and we're very rich. Did you know that, Mr. Steves?" She asked, looking up at him.

Mr. Steves chuckled, amused with her words. "Oh yes, child, I know you're filthy rich."

"So you know I can buy your paintings," she continued, and he raised a brow, pausing to let her go wherever she was going with this. "And I intend to…"

"You intend to…"

"For this much money…" She pulled the wad of money from behind her, and the man's eyes zoomed in on her.

"Where did you get that money?" He asked immediately.

"It's my emergency money, Mr. Steves. I have an emergency," she urged.

"I highly doubt my paintings will help… They've never helped anyone," he murmured, drinking some wine. His small, beady eyes never left the wad of cash in her tiny fist.

"They'll help me, and I'll show you how," she replied, shoving the money into his hand and leaving the man dumbfounded.

"Ilsa –"

"My mommy wrote this letter for my father. I can't read yet, but we're working on it. So in the meantime, I need to know what it says," she explained carefully.

Mr. Steves looked doubtfully at the child, gray eyebrow raised. "I think we've had enough talk, Miss. I think you need to go to bed."

"But I can't, Mr. Steves! I cant!" Ilsa cried, stomping her sock-clad foot. "I know I'm still small, but I know something is wrong, and I want to help. No one lets me help!"

Something akin to sadness passed through Mr. Steves' once-handsome face. "Child, it's best that you let the adults handle this –"

"My mommy once let me watch a movie with elves and princesses in it. And one elf queen said to the small boy that even the smallest of persons can change the course of the future." Ilsa's eyes were wide and pleading. "I can be that small person."

"Your mother let you watch Lord of the Rings?" he asked dubiously.

"Well… We skipped a lot, a lot of parts, but yes," Ilsa reasoned. "I got to watch the elves!"

Mr. Steves shook his head, handing her back her money. "I don't want your money, Ilsa. Give me the letter."

"Will you read it? Or will you take it away?" Ilsa pulled back, suspicious.

"I'll read it, I'll read it!" He snapped, and she haughtily handed it to him. She watched with hawk eyes as Mr. Steves carefully opened the hotel stationary and sighed.

"I like this hotel," he murmured.

"My daddy owns it," she said.

Mr. Steves rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

"Chuck," he started.

"That's my daddy's name, or sometimes people call him Charles," Ilsa explained.

"I know, child," Mr. Steves replied, annoyed. "It's a short letter."

"Read," Ilsa urged.

"_Chuck, please don't hate me. I just need time. I am sorry, my love. Make sure Ilsa doesn't stay up past her bedtime…"_ He looked back up at her, and Ilsa bit her small lip. "_… Love, Blair."_

"That's my mommy's name," Ilsa whispered and took a seat on the coach by the wall with the very busy print. Her mother wouldn't approve of this print.

"Ilsa…" Mr. Steves began. "I think it's time for you to go back to bed, Miss."

Ilsa sighed. She had hoped that her mother's note would be much more revealing. She expected to find the answers to all the questions in the world in that small paper. The letter was supposed to fix everything that was wrong; instead she was simply reminded that she was still a child who was dependant on others.

Ilsa carefully looked over Mr. Steves, who was hardly her grandfather or her father, and she felt tears well in her eyes. Admitting this out loud was something very painful for her, because she had promised her father she would be good. She would be a good girl.

"I miss my mommy…" she whispered so softly that Mr. Steves was sure he imagined it.

The older man sighed and squat eye-level with her. "I'm sure your mommy won't be able to stay away for much longer from such a good girl like you."

A small, warm tear slipped from Ilsa's eye, rolling down her porcelain cheek and falling on Prince Albert.

"Where's your mommy, Mr. Steves?" Ilsa whispered.

"She died… When I was even younger than you," he admitted, wiping the tear-track off her face.

"You must miss her, Mr. Steves," she swallowed.

"Yes… I do," he gulped and looked down, the earring in his right ear catching a bit of light and winking at her.

"I bet she would love your paintings," she smiled. He returned her smile and took her hand to lead her back to her room.

"I bet she would," he agreed.

Sometime after four in the morning, Mr. Steves was bothered once more. This time by a very dejected Chuck Bass. A tired-looking Mr. Steves stopped Chuck as he made his way to his daughter's nursery.

"I don't tend to get into things that are not my business, Mr. Bass. But that little girl… I think she needs to go home… And I think she needs her father."

Chuck Bass, not often told what do to, much less by the help (with the exception of Dorota), stood for a moment contemplating the man with the flamboyant walk and the 80s earring and his words about Ilsa.

He shook himself out of it and quickly made it to his daughter's room, which was dark and quiet. He took off his coat, shoes and ti,e and slipped into bed next to her, pulling her towards him and letting the warmth of her small body lull him to sleep.

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"_I was close to my father, yes. In the way that all little girls are close to their fathers. He coddled me and gave me all of my heart's desires. I was his little angel. But the relationship I had with my mother was much different; we shared secrets, her and I. She understood something deep in me that I could never place. When my baby brother was born, years later, I almost understood what my mother and I had. My father and he had a different connection, a different understanding… We can attribute it to them wanting to fix the wrongs in the relationship they had with their own parents. If I was a philosophical person, I would attribute it to that." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

When Ilsa woke from her deep slumber she found that her father wasn't by her side. She had a moment of panic, thinking that he had never made it back, thinking that he had left her for an infinite number of days in search of her dear mother. But her panic quickly subsided when she saw his tie and coat thrown over the plush violet chair by her bed. His scent was still on the pillows, much like her mother's scent had lingered the day before in London. Her father would forever smell faintly of smoke and clean masculine cologne. However, his hands always smelled like her mother. Except for that week. Ilsa attributed it to the fact that he loved touching her. Loved caressing her neck as he passed behind her in the breakfast table. He loved kissing her hand as he helped her stand from her spot in the carpet where the girls shared tea with Prince Albert. He often could be found standing behind her with a hand on her waist, or grabbing her legs, or playing with her hair or caressing her face. This was how Ilsa knew her parents loved one another. When she was older, of course. They could never seem to keep their hands to themselves.

She padded out of her room, bringing Prince Albert with her to make sure he didn't feel lonely in the large palatial bed her Granddaddy had gotten for her when she was too young to remember. The house was silent despite it being late in the morning, and Ilsa wondered if she had been left alone all together. Even more panic set through her as she ran through the house until she found her father in his slippers drinking a cup of strong coffee as he stared out into the French countryside.

He must've sensed her presence, for he turned to look at her and an easy smile took over his handsome features.

"Morning, princess," he murmured.

She was so relieved that he was back, that he hadn't left her, that she let out a cry of relief and ran to him.

"Daddy!" She cried, jumping into his arms and making him balance his cup and daughter at the same time. But her daddy was a strong man and was able to manage it without burning them both to a crisp. "You came, Daddy! You didn't leave!"

He held her tightly, rocking her back and forth, taking in the early morning light and the warmth that the sun brought with it. Ilsa had known many hugs from her father, had basked in many more. To her dying day, this was the one she remembered the most. The feeling of relief and of still being taken care of left such happiness in her heart that she let out a few childish tears. Ones that she would be ashamed of admitting to later on.

"Can we go home, Daddy? Can we go home now?" She whispered and, despite his body tensing slightly under the assault of such a loaded question, he finally let go of the weight his body carried. He let go of his incessant need to push her mommy into something she wasn't yet ready to do.

He let out a deep breath that smelled of coffee and toothpaste and smiled at his Ilsa. "Yeah… Let's go home."

He had never seen his daughter look so happy.

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Ilsa, being the grand actress that she was, made a big show of saying goodbye to her grandfathers. She sobbed on their shoulders and made them promise they would come see her as soon as they could. They promised they would hold a proper ball with masks and violins. They promised her all sorts of things.

To Mr. Steves, she gave a big hug (around his legs) and told him that when she was allowed to purchase her own paintings, she would buy plenty of his until he didn't know what to do with the money. He didn't believe her, but gave her a good-natured smile nevertheless.

Cat was missing in action. And so were her daddy's shoes. Because Mommy was not there, her daddy decided to give up on the 'damn' shoes. Ilsa never told anyone that he had cursed.

Her bags were back in the car and Parker settled in the front seat; her daddy made sure she was secure in the backseat and that the seat belt didn't wrinkle her beautiful black wool coat. Prince Albert was dressed in a matching cape, fine black wool to cover him from the chilly wind and a lovely violet cap matching Ilsa's sat on his head.

Her Grandpa Roman said she looked like a vision, and Ilsa took that to mean that she looked even _better_ than a doll. If she ever ran into that mean little boy, Paxton Burke, she would inform him of her promotion in status.

Once her father was sure that she was nice and secure, he turned to talk to her grandfathers. Ilsa, knowing little child that she was, lowered her window slightly to eavesdrop on the 'adult talk' once more. Something she apparently liked doing very much.

"Call me when you land. She might even be home, you never know," her Granddaddy said to her father.

"I will," her father nodded, and then her window was rudely rolled up.

"Little girls shouldn't eavesdrop," that mean Parker said, chuckling and glancing back at her.

Ilsa fumed, glaring at him.

"Despite how well they can stomp on feet," he continued.

"I'll stomp on your foot again, Mr. Parker. I have my high heels on today," she snapped.

Parker glared at her. "Daddy's not always going to be there to save you, little princess."

"I don't need my daddy to save me," she answered with as much bravery as her small frame let her. The truth was that Prince Albert was a bit scared.

"Are you sure?" He chuckled but before they could continue their threatening conversation, her father came back and slid into his side of the car. Ilsa had fully intended to tell her father exactly what Parker had said, but as they rode into the city they encountered a very bad traffic jam that delayed their journey and made her father irate.

Ilsa still glared at Parker from time to time, but Prince Albert assured her that her father would never let anything happen to her and she had to heartily agree with him.

Once they were back on the plane, and Ilsa was seated securely next to her father with his arm around her, she intended to tell him. But they had a bad flight with plenty of turbulence that made Ilsa cry and then made her sick to her stomach.

Ilsa thought that her daddy was sorry his plans made her so sick, since he kept apologizing to her as she shook in his arms after she had emptied the contents of her small stomach in the toilet.

He made a bed for her in the comfortable sofas and laid her down with her head on his lap and read her 'Little Red Riding Hood' until she fell asleep. Ilsa slept for a long, long time and when her father woke her, she could see the outline of the city as the sun began to set for the night. She gave her father a wide smile and the happiness in her small heart made her forget all about Parker and his evil words. She kissed her father over and over until they landed and happiness took over. She could _feel_ that everything would be all right. Her daddy would make sure that everything would be all right. That's what fathers were for, was it not?

After saying goodbye to Joe, their pilot, Ilsa ran on the tarmac towards Arthur, who was waiting dutifully by her precious limo.

"Arthur!" She cried happily. In her hands was Prince Albert and on her face a smile.

"Welcome home, Miss Ilsa," he nodded as he opened the door for her. "Dorota has made sure there is warm milk and honey in the thermos inside, and I have made sure 'Beauty and the Beast' is playing."

She nearly hugged him, but she remembered her mother's words about who exactly she was and how exactly a lady should behave. So she curtsied. "Thank you, Arthur. It's good to be home."

She quickly climbed into her limo and jumped on the seat, forgetting all about her upset stomach a few hours before. She spotted the thermos and happily drank her milk, her feet bouncing on the seat as she watched Belle sing about how she would _never_ marry Gaston. She sang along with her as she knew all the words. Prince Albert pitched in every once in a while.

Her father joined her shortly after, letting her scoot into him as she enjoyed the movie. She was so happy that once more she forgot all about Parker and his words; the same Parker who was sitting in the front seat with Arthur while they headed home to their house high above the clouds.

Ilsa didn't really run. She had never been encouraged to run, but she would admit later that she literally _ran_ once the elevator opened to her home.

"DOROTA!" She cried loudly, Prince Albert bouncing in her hand with her as Daddy stayed behind to talk to Parker.

"Miss Ilsa!" Her Dorota quickly came into view, and she enveloped her young charge tightly.

"I've had such adventures, Dorota!" Ilsa cried to her. "I have to tell you!"

But Dorota was wide-eyed, looking over her small shoulder attempting to spot someone. That was when her father strode in, nodding at Dorota.

"I would bathe her and put her to bed, but I have to take care of some things," he explained, tugging on his gloves.

"Miss Blair?" Dorota asked.

Her father craftily avoided her question. "Have her in bed by eight, if you please. I should be back before that."

"Daddy…" Ilsa pleaded, loving all the time they had gotten to spend together lately. He had helped her get ready, dressed her, and even combed her hair. They had nothing but a good time together.

"I will go in and see you once I get back home," he assured her, squatting down and kissing her forehead. "I promise, princess."

Ilsa blinked her long lashes at him, which usually had a lulling effect on people, beckoning them to fall to her will. But her father knew better, and he smirked at her with a wink.

"Nice try, baby," he stood up, leaving Ilsa to pout. Prince Albert didn't like to be left alone, most especially when Mommy was still gone, and that bad Parker was still around.

"But I have to tell you a story," she whispered, eyeing Parker as he lounged by the elevator and casually stared at the display.

"Tell it to me later, princess, Daddy's got to go." He patted her head affectionately. Ilsa fumed, glaring angrily at Parker once her father turned his back on her.

Parker, for his part, sported an amused grin on his face and followed her dad out the elevator.

"He's a mean man, Dorora," Ilsa informed the maid.

"Come Miss Ilsa, you must be hungry," Dorota assured her. The truth was that Ilsa was very hungry, very hungry for Dorota's cooking. She had a meal prepared for a queen before her: roasted Cornish hen in a raspberry white wine sauce over a bed of her favorite mashed potatoes. Ilsa smiled at Dorota as she ate her meal heartily.

"Good appetite," Dorota mentioned, and Ilsa nodded. They struggled to get Prince Albert to eat anything; all of his fighting ended with some sauce on his hat and Ilsa scolded him harshly. Then Dorota filled her tub with a grape-smelling bubble bath, and Ilsa had great fun splashing and making a loud mess. Dorota scolded her but Ilsa didn't care, laughing loudly and forgetting all about the past few days.

Once Dorota secretly pulled the plug on the tub and made Ilsa get out of the bath, she helped her dry her curls and twist them into light buns that would further accentuate them. This was the way her mother always wanted her hair to be set, and tradition needn't be abandoned just because Mrs. Bass was not around. On the contrary, it should be upheld. Ilsa lived with that knowledge for the rest of her life.

Then there was a great debate on what pajamas to wear for the night, and it was finally settled that Ilsa could wear her yellow ones, which sported tiny lilac flowers on them. Dorota still insisted that they were not warm enough, but Ilsa agreed to wear some warmers underneath, with slippers and the little cardigan her mommy had brought her from Alice + Olivia last month. Once Prince Albert was also dressed in a lovely yellow robe, Ilsa started following Dorota around, talking non-stop about all the great times she had with her father these past few days even if Dorota did not believe Daddy had dressed her.

After being coaxed into bed with promises of visits to the park the next morning, Ilsa lay in her own room, in her own bed and in her own city, staring at the ceiling.

It was late, and Daddy wasn't back yet. It was late, and Mommy was not home. It was late, and Ilsa could faintly hear Dorota downstairs closing shop for the evening. Ilsa tried and tried to sleep, but try as she might she was still… alone. She hated it. Huffing, she left the bed in search of some more warm milk and honey, and perhaps a story from a tired Dorota.

She padded softly downstairs, her slippers preventing her making any noise whatsoever. She searched and searched for Dorota and couldn't find her anywhere. Furrowing her brows, she walked back towards the stairs, feeling even more alone in this large and empty house. Yet just as she was making it back to the foot of the stairs, the elevator chimed.

Ilsa, elated at the return of her father, ran towards the elevator without any thought as to being up very past her bedtime. A wide smile on her face, she turned the corner.

"Daddy!"

Her little feet came to a sudden halt. Her eyes widened as Parker walked in before her. Alone. No daddy in sight.

She clutched Prince Albert more tightly and decided to make the wise decision to turn quickly and head to her room. She didn't want to have him be mean to her again, most especially when she was by herself. Prince Albert urged her to get going faster, but before she knew it someone had grabbed her and turned her around.

Her little heart stopped when she saw the evil sanguine smile on Parker's lips. "I believe you owe me a little apology, _princess,_" he sneered.

Ilsa's mouth went dry, and she really wished she had some warm milk and honey nearby to help her with her thirst. She really missed her mother and missed her coddling and how everything felt like it would be all right. Unlike now, where everything felt like it was falling apart and no one would save her.

"Let me go!" She cried, wrenching her small arm from him and turning to run towards the stairs, but he was bigger and quicker and grabbed her again by her upper shoulders.

"No heels this time, you brat," he snapped, and she felt her eyes involuntarily water up. He was holding her too tightly and too strongly, and she felt a horribly funny feeling in her tummy. She didn't understand why, since she'd had a lovely nice dinner. "Makes me sick the way they just _lavish_ things on you. You haven't earned it; you don't _deserve_ it. You're just lucky that you happened to be you."

"You let me go, I _will_ tell my daddy what a horrible, mean man you are." Her words didn't come out as strong as she intended them; they came out shaky and afraid. Her courage was quickly failing her. She was truly alone.

"Oh, princess, didn't I say there would be a time when Daddy couldn't save you? Well, Daddy is still scouring the city for that mother of yours who abandoned you and _left_ you," he chuckled.

Ilsa couldn't stand it; she had little tear tracks on her face. "She didn't! You take that back! She's the best mommy in all the world!"

He chuckled, pulling her closer and shaking her. "She's the _worst_."

"No, you liar! You _evil_ mean man, I'm going to make sure Daddy gets you and good!" Ilsa cried.

Parker, seeing Prince Albert as she gripped the frog for dear life, smirked and yanked him out of her hands.

Ilsa let out a high-pitched wail. "PRINCE ALBERT!"

Parker smiled and held it way above her. Then, grabbing the toy's head, he yanked furiously, detaching the head from the body.

Ilsa felt the air knocked out of her as she stared dumbfounded at her precious toy's mutilation. She felt like it had happened to her. Like he had killed _her_.

"No more stupid frog!" And Parker threw the remains of the toy across the room, making what was left of Prince Albert skid on the freshly waxed floor.

"Prince Albert…" Ilsa whispered, distraught, her small voice full of tears and fears. If this man had done this to Prince Albert, who was so brave and dashing, who knew what he would do to her?

Then Parker turned his attention back to the small girl and began stalking towards her.

"Like I said… Your daddy is not here to save you –"

To Ilsa, years later, she couldn't really place what happened. Mostly because she was so very upset with what happened to her poor frog that it was all a blur. But she would always, until the day she died, remember the next words that came – followed swiftly by the sound of a hollow metal vase hitting Mr. Parker on the head and making him drop on the floor like dead weight.

" – But her mother is."

"_Yes, I looked exactly like my mother, but I always thought that my mother was braver, much braver than I ever thought I could be. It wasn't until I had my own child that I realized from where her braveness stemmed. It came from the innate need to protect her children. She was small but feisty. I think that's one of the things my father loved about her." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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Tbc

A/N: Sorry for the cliffie, the new chapter will be up on Thursday. Many of you are asking how you say Ilsa's name. It's pronounced "Ill-sa" like the heroine of Casablanca where I suspect Blair got the name from. Also, there's only one more chapter to go and the epilogue. This is not a long epic story like some of my previous ones, just a little insight into the life of this little family.


	7. Chapter 6: Prince Albert Was French

**The Little Princess**

By Isabelle Hernandez

Rating: R, mature later chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Gossip Girl and much less Chuck and Blair. Sadly.

Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her.

A/N: It came to me in a dream, and I decided to write it down. Thank you to my beta, Tati.

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**Chapter 6: Prince Albert Was French**

"_Moms have this sense of being able to make things better. To fix things. When your heart is broken, you just need to be held; when fearful, you just need to be comforted. And when the heart is lost, it just needs to be found." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

"MOMMY!" Ilsa cried, stunned at seeing her mother standing there, looking down angrily at the man moaning on the floor, holding the fine metal vase her own mother had given her in her hand. Mommy had often complained about how much she hated the thing. Now it seemed like she had found a good use for it.

Her mother, soft and elegant as always, dropped the vase, making it clatter on the floor loudly. Her chest, dressed in a fine blouse, rose and fell. She turned to Ilsa and sighed loudly.

"Baby," she whispered, and that was all that Ilsa needed.

The small child let out a cry of relief and threw herself into her mother's warm and inviting embrace, sobbing loudly against her chest. Her mother held her tightly, rocking her back and forth, coddling her and kissing her.

"Mommy, you left, you left me!" Ilsa cried uncontrollably.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. I'll_ never_ ever leave you again," her mother assured her, picking her up and walking her away from the fallen Parker. She then sat down on the couch, still rocking Ilsa in soothing motions.

"He killed Prince Albert, Mommy, he killed him…" Ilsa whimpered, no longer having the strength to yell or cry or wail. She was tired, she wanted her milk, she wanted her bed, and above all, she wanted for her mother to never let her go.

"We will fix Prince Albert, you know we will. He's the bravest frog in all the world, my love," her mommy told her, and Ilsa agreed with a sob.

"His head is gone, mommy, he lost his head," Ilsa explained, her little face still buried in her mother's chest.

"We will fix him, baby, we will fix him. Don't you worry," her mommy continued.

That's when the elevators dinged and Ilsa's father stepped out, dressed in his elegant charcoal coat, bright red scarf and gloves, with a tired look on his face. Then he paused, not knowing if what he saw was real. Ilsa's head lifted and she watched as her parent's eyes locked and something that she didn't understand took over the air in the room. Something that she supposed she would understand when she was older and wiser like her mother.

"Blair…" her father whispered, his face transforming to a softness he had lacked these past few days.

Ilsa watched her mother's fine throat work, her round lips opening and closing, unable to find words for her father. She settled for pointing to Parker on the floor, moving slightly.

"He attacked her, l-look what he did to her frog," her mother said, her voice surprisingly strong.

Daddy shook himself out of the trance her mother had put him under and looked to see the pieces of Prince Albert. His face darkened, morphing instantly into something Ilsa had never seen. It was so scary that she hid her face from it all in her mother's chest.

"It's alright, princess. He'll _never_ hurt you again," her mother assured her, and when Ilsa looked up, her parent's eyes were locked once more. Both pairs of eyes were hard and set. They seemed to have reached an understanding without words.

"Take her to her room," he commanded and, before his sentence was out of his mouth, her mother had lifted her up and started towards the stairs. Ilsa quickly wrapped her small legs around her mother's narrow waist, fitting comfortably there. Ilsa, being a small petite thing like her mother, was smaller than most children her age.

"Prince Albert…" Ilsa pointed with her little finger as her mother carried her. The small toy was in two pieces, staring at her. His cape was also gone. Despite finally being back into her mother's loving arms, she felt like something had been irreparably broken. Something akin to innocence and the magic that innocence brings.

Prince Albert no longer looked like her constant companion, her Prince in a cape, but more like a well-used and much loved toy that she had held on to when she had nothing else to hold.

Her mother paused and turned to get the toy and take it with them, but her father was quicker and quickly grabbed the pieces – taking an extra long time to enjoy the view her mother's bare legs reflected – and then finally stood up and handed Ilsa her broken toy.

Ilsa, seeing the broken toy close-up, let out a whimper and buried her face into her mother's pale neck. She didn't see the exchange between her parents because she was too distraught to even think. But if she had looked, she would've seen two people sharing an intimate look filled with understanding, love and forgiveness. How two people could convey so much with a single glance would've been beyond a small child to understand, but just because Ilsa didn't see it or understand it, did not mean that it didn't happen.

"I shouldn't be long," her father assured them. His voice was soft and soothing, and she felt her mother nod slightly. Her mother's gentle steps carried them safely up to the second floor of their grand home, high above the clouds, where no harm would touch a little Princess.

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"_Some of the fondest memories I have of my mother were of her putting me to bed. It was a little tradition with us, one which she also carried on with my brother and sister. My mother was very nurturing; she loved telling us grand tales, or singing us songs so softly that only we could understand the melody. When I had my own child, I did the same thing, as an attempt to carry out tradition." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

Ilsa watched her mother move around the room, the soft glow of the small lamp casting shadows on her beautiful face. Dorota had left just minutes before, crying and bumbling all over her mother, apologizing profusely. Her mother had assured her that all was fine and sent her home to be with her own family. Ilsa lay in bed, tucked safely in the warm sheets, an empty glass of milk and honey on the night table.

"There…" Her mother came back with Prince Albert in her hand. His head was held together safely with safety pins around his neck. She wrapped a scarf around him so that if the pins came undone during the night, her small daughter wouldn't get poked. "A temporary fix until we can let the experts handle it."

Ilsa eyed her frog doubtfully; he seemed a different Prince than the one a few hours ago. He seemed more vulnerable. _She_ felt more vulnerable.

"He's still broken," the child pointed out, her little finger touching the scarf as her mother pulled back the sheets of her bed. Her mommy kicked off her fine shoes and slid herself in the bed with her, despite having her favorite skirt on. Ilsa welcomed the attention and cuddled herself against her mother's familiar breast. Blair slowly stroked her hair, lulling her to sleep.

"It doesn't mean he can't be fixed…" her mother whispered against her curls.

"Will he ever be the same, Mommy? Can Prince Albert still be brave even if he's got an ugly cut?" Her daughter asked, turning her small head to study her mother's response.

It took her mother a little bit to come up with an adequate response, but she finally sighed and looked down at Ilsa, tracking her little fine brows with the tips of her manicured fingers.

"Sometimes… we _break,_ and it's very painful and sad…" her mother whispered softly and carefully. "Sometimes… it _looks_ like we're not going to make it… but sometimes all we need is a good cry and a bit of healing to be able to be as brave as we once were…"

"Prince Albert cried?" Ilsa asked, whispering as she looked over at her beloved frog, who had never cried in front of her.

"Oh yes…" her mommy explained, touching Prince Albert's eyes. "We all cry, even the brave Prince Albert…" Ilsa sighed, kissing Prince Albert's cheek.

"Don't cry, Prince Albert… We're going to fix you…" Ilsa told him.

Her mother smiled slightly at her.

"He made it, I _knew_ he was brave enough," Ilsa chattered to her mother.

"Well, that's because he loves you, princess," her mother explained.

Ilsa's small head, intrigued by this, perked up. Both girls were so focused on one another that neither spotted the silent figure by the door listening and studying their profiles, hidden by the shadows.

"You see… when something _horrible_ happens… and we think we're not going to make it…" her mother took a deep breath, and Ilsa pressed herself closer to her mother, sensing her mother could also use with a bit of hugging. "… It's our loved ones that brings us back."

Ilsa, small and still so very innocent – years from understanding life's most complicated questions, answers and mysteries – blinked up at her mother, sensing that she was explaining much more than she wanted to.

"Is that why you came back, Mommy?" Ilsa asked timidly, afraid she would scare her mother into silence. Her small fingers, with nails painted a lovely lilac hue, played with the buttons of her mother's fine blouse. The buttons were small gold and engraved with tiny little semi-circles.

Her mother pressed her warm lips against Ilsa's temple and let her mouth linger there, comforting her.

"Yes… because I love you, and I love your father…" her mother finally whispered.

"And Daddy loves you, and _I _love you, and Dorota loves you, and Aunt Serena loves you, _and_ Prince Albert loves you…" Ilsa started counting off, thinking this was a lovely game of who loves whom.

Her mother laughed a melodic laugh and pulled her closer, rocking her slightly.

"Can you sing me a song, Mommy? I promise to go to sleep like I promised Daddy I would be a good girl," Ilsa told her.

"Ilsa, you _are_ a good girl, the _best_ girl," her mother assured her.

"But I was even better. Daddy even helped me bath, and he –"

"Bathe," her mother corrected her.

"Bathe, and he combed my hair, and he put my shoes on –"

"You _know_ how to put your shoes on."

"But he didn't know that." Ilsa gave her mother a sly smile, and Blair let out a loud laugh, kissing her daughter once more.

"Teaching her nothing but good things, I see." The voice from the doorway made both girls jump a bit, guilty expressions on both of their faces.

"Daddy!" Ilsa cried, smiling happily at him. "Look! Mommy fixed Prince Albert!"

Her father pushed himself off the wall where he had been lounging. His thick coat was now gone, so were his jacket and tie. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to expose his arms and he wore an easy look on his face. Mommy couldn't take her eyes off him and vice versa. Ilsa felt ignored.

"But we're going to take him tomorrow to Grandma Eleanor to get him properly fixed. Mommy says she's the best at fixing froggies," Ilsa explained, attempting to reclaim her parents' attention.

"Eleanor Waldorf… toy fixer…" her father murmured, rounding the bed and taking a seat on the other side of Ilsa. Ilsa watched carefully, seeing the tension ease slightly as Daddy took Prince Albert and studied him, making sure the scarf was on tightly around the neck. Her mother watched his fingers and how they worked, never making a sound. He slowly nodded, pleased with the temporary fix of Prince Albert, and put the toy back in Ilsa's arms, making sure he was tucked under the blanket lest he get cold. His hands took mommy's fine hand and leaned forward, kissing the back of it.

Her mother stared at him, transfixed, and Ilsa blinked, unsure of what was happening. She had seen her daddy do this before to her mommy, usually accompanied by an odd smile as they giggled at something that only adults could understand, but this time they both stared at one another, neither one smiling.

"Chuck…" her mother whispered, and Ilsa turned, looking from one parent to the next, her rosy lips parting.

"Let's put her to bed… She's past her bedtime," he whispered, letting go of her hand.

"Ok… Go shower. I'll be there in a minute… Let me make sure –" her mother returned.

"No…" Her father shook his head. "I'll stay."

"But you never –"

"I will now," he replied, understanding her while Ilsa understood nothing at all, a thought which made her pout.

Her mother's throat worked once more, unsure of his meaning, and Ilsa's wide eyes took them both in.

"Can I get a song, Mommy?" Ilsa finally asked, holding Prince Albert more tightly. Her mother blinked, as if realizing they had ignored her, and smiled easily.

"Of course," she whispered and kissed her once more on her porcelain cheek, making Ilsa sigh in contentment.

Ilsa, five-year-old Upper East Side princess, was slowly lulled to sleep by her mother's calm and sweet voice singing about a moon and a river. Her eyelids became unbearably heavy, yet the last thing she remembered as she slowly slid her eyes closed was her daddy looking at her mommy the way Ilsa herself looked at Prince Albert.

The child was _nearly_ asleep, yet she was still hearing the adults around her. Her body was tired and her mind exhausted, ready for a night of long and much-needed rest.

"I'm sorry," her daddy whispered. "I never cried. Not once."

"Chuck…"

"But I was as broken as you," he continued, and Ilsa's muddled mind wondered who broke what. "I wasn't there… I thought the China project was _so_ important."

"Please don't…"

"When I found out I got on the plane… and then I washed my face, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw my father… staring back at me. I had become him," he whispered harshly, struggling for the words.

"You're _not_ your father. I wouldn't have married your father."

Ilsa's mind became too interested in the conversation around her and she woke; yet kept her eyes firmly closed to make sure she wouldn't interrupt them. It was a treat to get to hear an adult conversation; usually people tiptoed around their words before her. Most especially since her mommy had been sick.

"I love you each night and leave you each day…"

"Chuck, please, you do so much," her mother assured him, and Ilsa was dying to see what they were doing, whispering in the darkness of her room, both in bed with her.

"But you do more…" he said a bit louder. "I… I didn't even know Ilsa drank her milk with honey…"

Her mother was silent.

"I missed so much… I…"

"I love you. Your daughter _loves_ you, and we're a family." Her mother took a deep breath. "We might be tiny and a bit dysfunctional, but there's love here."

"I love you so much, Blair…"

Ilsa swallowed. Her parents were like a movie. She smiled and wiggled her toes.

"I'm sorry too…" Her mother whispered. "I left my baby…"

"She's stronger than she looks. She held me up when I was falling," he whispered, and Ilsa felt her father stroke her hair. She worked really, really hard to make sure she stayed as still as possible. "You've been good with her. She quotes you every five sentences."

"She'll talk about you one day, too," her mommy assured him. "A long time from now… when she hardly remembers the time before this. She's still a baby… You have time, Chuck. You _can_ be there. You can be there her first day at school, you can learn to braid her hair, you can do all these things… Just because we don't have a boy…"

"Blair –"

"… But one day we _will_."

And they were both silent.

"I don't think that's a good idea," her father finally replied. "Ilsa is more than enough. You're more than enough, and I am happy. Very happy… Promise me you wont ever leave."

The silence was palpable, and Ilsa wondered if they had also fallen asleep, sitting up on the bed.

"I promise," her mother murmured, and then there was shifting on the bed and Ilsa heard them kiss lightly.

"Let's go to bed," her mother whispered.

"Are you ok?" Her father asked with hesitation. Her mother took a moment to think on it.

"No… But I will be," she finally said, the slight pain in her voice mixed with assurance.

Ilsa fastidiously waited until she was sure both of her parents had kissed her, whispering loving words, and then locked the door behind them before opening her eyes. She blinked into the room, furrowing her brow. She told Prince Albert that she didn't know what the big fuss was about 'adult talk.' It seemed very boring and uneventful to her.

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"_I was eight years old when my baby brother was born. I hated him on sight and demanded that they return him from wherever he came from, but one day I walked into the nursery to find my father rocking the little thing in his arms. I was stupefied for a minute. He loved that baby boy. They had a strange special bond that I could never understand. My mother interrupted my thoughts and assured me that he was the same when I was born, but I didn't believe her at the time because I could never imagine being so very small and noisy." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

When Ilsa woke up the next morning, she was surprised herself to find that neither her daddy nor her Dorota had come to wake her up. All evil, ugly thoughts had drifted from her child-like mind, and she felt that today was a day like any other. As such, she would run quickly to her parents' bedroom and jump on the bed to wake her mother since her father was surely most likely at work already. They could watch a movie, have Cheerios, a tea party at midday, a visit to Grandma Lily and then a lazy walk in the park.

She ran down the hallway, her little feet making padding noises on the wood floors, her curls bounced behind her, and Prince Albert (head still in place) trailing behind.

To her grand surprise, she found _both_ her parents in bed, fast asleep and holding on to one another. She debated a moment about waking them with such ruckus, but then a whisper came from the door. It was her Dorota.

"Miss Ilsa, _come_," she whispered harshly.

Ilsa frowned. She _hated_ at this moment that her mother told her to obey Dorota no matter what. She pouted and cast a look towards her parent's slumbering outlines and then reluctantly padded towards her nana. Once out the door, Dorota picked her up and carried her down to the kitchen, murmuring in Polish things Ilsa could never understand. But this didn't stop her from playing with her nana's maid hat.

"My mommy's back, Dorota," she explained, as if her nana had not sobbed all over Blair the very night before.

"I know," Dorota nodded, sitting Ilsa in her favored chair, which was closest to the window so Ilsa could visibly see the city below. It was a clear day and, with the clouds gone, she could observe all the little people beneath her running to and fro.

"Can I wake Mommy and Daddy?" She asked as she watched Dorota mill about the kitchen, placing things in plates and buttering bread.

"Soon." Her nana nodded, and Ilsa decided to start playing with Prince Albert by showing him how to strut across the table.

While she did this, and took Prince Albert to faraway adventures, Dorota set up a breakfast tray and filled it with fruits, breads, cheeses, egg soufflés, egg-white omelets, bacon, yogurt, loads of coffee and orange juice.

"Prince Albert would like cookies for breakfast," Ilsa said innocently, seeing the array of food.

"No cookies," Dorota admonished.

"They're not for me, Dorota. They're for Prince Albert," Ilsa assured her, twisting her little fingers in the frog's fur.

"No cookies," Dorota repeated, and Ilsa frowned, stomping her foot a bit. But before she could get very far, her father walked into the kitchen, his hair disheveled and his robe casually open.

"Daddy!" Ilsa cried, stepping off the chair and running to him, he caught her mid run and lifted her up high, high into the air, twirling her around. Ilsa let out a delighted squeal as she opened her arms wide to make believe she was a flying Princess. Prince Albert enjoyed the attention too; he even wore his cape for the occasion.

He kissed her soundly on her cheek, and Ilsa returned the sentiment, peppering his face with kisses. He had a slight bit of stubble.

"Is Mommy asleep?" She asked, poking her finger into his ear.

"She is. Want to surprise her?" He asked, and his voice was so light and happy that Ilsa instantly nodded her head, pushing Prince Albert to her father's face and stating that the frog needed a kiss too, which her daddy refused to give.

"We will be taking this tray to Mommy, Dorota," her father said, once he put Ilsa down. He picked up the finished tray filled with goodies before Dorota could protest. "Ilsa will get the napkins."

Ilsa did promptly as she was told, shooting Dorota a toothy smile, which the maid returned. Her father made her go first to make sure she didn't fall, and she waited for him to carry the heavy tray up the steps. Then she ran ahead of him, telling Prince Albert how much fun they were going to have. She pushed the door to the bedroom open and then gasped when she found the bed empty.

Her daddy came right behind her and paused at the same thing, his eyes wide as Ilsa looked on confused.

"Mommy?" She asked into the empty room.

"Blair?" Her father echoed, his voice slightly hollow.

Ilsa turned, holding both napkins and Prince Albert to her small chest and looked at her father for instructions. Were they no longer having breakfast in bed? Where was her mother? Ilsa felt for a moment that everything would go wrong again, and her daddy would be sad and her mommy would be gone.

She didn't understand these fears, she didn't know where they came from, but she did know she wanted them to go away.

"Look at this," a voice said, padding out of the bathroom. Ilsa's small head turned sharply to look at her mother, walking out of the shower with her hair wet, face clean and a thick white robe wrapped around her. "I love breakfast in bed," she smiled easily.

"Mommy!" Ilsa cried, running to her and jumping into her arms. Behind her, her daddy put down the tray harshly on the dresser, stunning both Ilsa and Blair. "We thought you left, Mommy!"

Her mother looked at her in confusion and then turned to look at her father, who was stalking towards them, with a look Ilsa didn't understand on his face. "Chuck, I said –"

But her daddy cut her mommy off and instantly attached his lips to her, kissing her soundly and more strangely than Ilsa had never seen them kiss. Her brows furrowed, they looked like that movie she had seen while sneaking around in Uncle Eric's house where a lady and a man without clothes kissed like that. She didn't understand why they had no clothes on; they weren't taking a bath. They kissed like they were hungry. Perhaps it was good that they brought so much food.

"Ewww!" Ilsa said loudly, voicing her opinion quite fervently.

Her father let go of her mother's lips, leaving Mommy quite dazed and confused, blinking weirdly. Her father turned to her, a slight smirk on his lips.

"Where do you think you came from?"

"CHUCK!" Her mother cried, appalled, back to her wits. "Don't _say_ that."

Her father chuckled, taking Ilsa from her mother's arms and setting her on the bed, Ilsa promptly began to jump on the fluffy white sheets.

"I'm flying, Mommy! Look!" She cried, and her mother laughed with her, jumping up on the bed as well. Daddy settled next to them with the food, and they ate eggs and bacon and fruits, and Prince Albert drank all his milk.

Her mommy and daddy promised her a trip to Grandma Eleanor so she could fix Prince Albert properly, and then afterward they would have brunch and visit Ilsa's ducks. That day Daddy didn't go to work, and Ilsa noticed that he did exactly thirty-five minutes of work (at least that's what Dorota whispered to Arthur as Ilsa overheard) before he joined them once more.

The next morning when the newspaper arrived, Daddy made Dorota get rid of it before Mommy saw it, but Ilsa sneaked and caught a glimpse of the front page where a picture of Parker stared back at her. Ilsa gasped, hiding her face in Prince Albert's fur. She wished badly that she knew how to read. But then again, perhaps it was best that she did not.

"_My parents were people with many secrets, both dark and light ones. I wished often I never found them out, but the truth has a way of revealing itself naturally and organically as the years progress." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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To be concluded with epilogue

I want to thank you all, once more, for always being so thoughtful with your reviews and kind words. I really hope you've enjoyed Ilsa's journey.


	8. Epilogue

**The Little Princess**

By Isabelle Hernandez

Rating: R, mature later chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Gossip Girl and much less Chuck and Blair. Sadly.

Summary: A journey begins when Chuck sets out to find Blair after a tragedy. He brings his inquisitive five year old daughter with him. This is the story told by her.

A/N: It came to me in a dream, and I decided to write it down. Thank you to my beta, Tati.

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**Epilogue**

"_On the day of my wedding, it was expected that my father would be the one to fall apart. Everyone fluttered around him to make sure he stayed away from his fine Scotch and that Paxton was not found dead in the back of the church. However, strange as it may seem, it was my mother who began crying uncontrollably, and it was my father who had to make sure she did not stain my custom-made dress with her supposed 'waterproof' mascara. She still denies the incident." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

That cool morning, Ilsa looked up at her nana and pointed to her favorite yellow coat. It had black velvet embroideries on the sleeves and on the edge of the skirt. It would be perfect for this sunny spring day but Dorota, not being as easily swayed by the child's demands as her father was, quickly shook her head.

"You get coat dirty, Miss Ilsa. No yellow coat," Dorota countered and pulled out Ilsa's green coat, which the child had worn many times before.

Ilsa's large brown eyes, whose lashes rivaled any supermodels, narrowed. She _wanted_ to wear the yellow coat. Her mommy was wearing a lovely yellow dress and her daddy his favorite yellow bow tie. How was she to wear green when she clearly didn't match them? Yet before her perfectly shaped lips could put up a Waldorf-sized protest, her mother walked in. She wore an easy look on her face and her warm eyes light when she saw her small daughter dressed in her white slip, Prince Albert still attached to her arm.

"Are you giving Dorota a hard time on what you're wearing?" Her mother asked, quite aware of her daughter's antics.

Blair Waldorf-Bass became aware of her daughter's hereditary character when she was but five months old. It all started with a lovely rattle her own father had given the baby when she was born. It was a Tiffany rattle, of course, and engraved on it was 'Our Little Princess.' Ilsa loved it. She shook it, licked it, showed it off to people – at least as well as her round baby hand would allow her to. One day the rattle went missing, nowhere to be found, and the baby would not stop crying. When Chuck couldn't take her cries any more, he had a duplicate made and brought to his princess. The baby's eyes lit up when she saw her beloved rattle coming towards her and her cries instantly stopped. She whined until she had it firmly gripped in her hands. Both young parents let out an audible sigh of relief, but then… Ilsa shook the rattle and shook it and shook it and, to their great astonishment, threw the rattle clear across the room, knocking over the entire row of stuffed animals. She let out an angry scream at the prospect of her parents _attempting_ to trick her out of her favorite toy. The stuffed animals collided in a domino effect, each falling down until the very last one on the shelf knocked itself into the baby's crib, landing between her chubby legs.

Ilsa stopped screaming and her little mouth formed a curious 'O,' studying the new toy before her. It was a frog Blair had received when she was five months pregnant and the baby shopping-spree was in full swing. It was a free gift that went along with the bedding. She hated it on sight and was about to throw it away when Chuck distracted her with his hungry lips and, through some odd chance of fate, the frog stayed in the nursery until that very moment when it landed between Ilsa's legs. The baby reached out her gooey fingers towards the frog as her parents watched cautiously. Ilsa's delighted squeal left them astonished. She _loved_ the frog. She would cry when it was not in the crib with her or not securely tied down with her in her carriage. There was the time when Serena lost it while babysitting Ilsa. She called Chuck and Blair, panicked, interrupting their night of groping each other at the opera. When Chuck and Blair arrived they found their baby shaking with anger, fully inconsolable in her lachrymose state because her frog was missing. While Chuck, Serena and some maids scoured the apartment for it, Ilsa whimpered and sobbed in her mother's arms, mumbling 'oggie' over and over.

The frog was indeed found, Serena's puppy Francis had decided that it was his and had dragged it to his bed, covering it with sheets and sitting on it, wagging his tail happily at them. Blair had been grossed out, refusing to let her daughter near the thing that the animal had licked. So Chuck had to send it to get cleaned and, fifteen excruciating hours later, 'oggie' was back in his rightful owner's hands. Francis had been named the devil from that time on by the Basses. Blair had warned Serena against getting a mutt, but Serena and her need to bring any bedraggled creature into her bed won out, as Chuck has stated.

So standing watching her daughter's determined face as she attempted to control her anger made a soft pang come to her chest. She had left her baby alone for three days. She never intended to stay away forever; Ilsa and Chuck were a part of her soul – a living, breathing part of it. But she should've known Chuck better, known he'd resort to dramatic antics like dragging their child around the world as she attempted to dull the pain. During those days, despite the earth-shattering pain she felt deep in her soul, Ilsa's scent would attack her in intervals and she would grab her bags and head out, then memories would stop her and make her turn back. She felt wretched, like she had scarred Ilsa for life the way her pregnancy had scarred her. She never wanted to get pregnant again; she would make sure of it. Ilsa was more than enough for them. She kept things interesting, that was for sure. Chuck was right; they didn't need another one.

"No, Mommy. I am merely stating that I would like to wear my yellow coat," Ilsa insisted, sending her mother her most innocent look. Her mother smirked in reply.

"Dorota, can you give us a moment?" She asked, and Dorota faithfully nodded, bustling out of the room.

"Can I not wear my yellow coat?" Ilsa asked, eyes as wide as a child could possibly make them. Blair took her daughter's small hand and walked her to her large pink bed. She picked her up under her arms and set her on her lap, cuddling her to her chest. Ilsa happily complied; she loved bonding time.

"Baby…" Blair began, feeling Ilsa's hair tickle her nose. "I wanted to say how sorry I am, my love." Ilsa looked up at Blair curiously.

"For what, Mommy?"

How magical it was to be a child, Blair thought. How their innocence could sustain them and protect them from the harshness of the world. Like when Ilsa had been just a small baby, barely a year old, and a terrorist attack had shaken New York again. Despite the chaos and the confusion around her, she still smiled happily and napped through all sorts of noises. Ilsa might act older, be slightly smarter than an average child, but she was a child at the end of the day and – notwithstanding her lineage – she was still a baby. She couldn't understand the emptiness in Blair's soul at the loss of the baby boy; she couldn't understand how hurt Blair was by Chuck's obsession with proving he was a better man than his father. She just would not understand it.

"For going on a trip without saying goodbye, baby," Blair clarified. "I was never leaving forever."

Ilsa smiled brightly at her mother, proving their biological connection by showing off mirroring dimples.

"Don't worry, Mommy. Forever is for however long the heart thinks it to be," Ilsa repeated back to her, and Blair's heart felt an inexplicable tug of love towards this very precious creature that belonged to her.

"You listen to _everything_ I say, don't you?" Her mother asked.

"Oh, yes. I want to be just like you," Ilsa nodded reverently, and this surprised Blair. For all the recent absence and internal turmoil, despite the blatant adoration that Ilsa had for her father, she wanted to be just like _her_.

Blair kissed her baby over and over, and Ilsa thought it was a great game. This was how Chuck found them, sprawled on top of the bed and giggling like school girls.

"Are we skipping on Eleanor? I, for one, wouldn't mind," he drawled, hands in pocket and slightly smirking.

It was a rare day when Charles Bass felt like a third wheel, but Ilsa and Blair had a strange bond that he had often not understood. Perhaps it was Blair's way of replaying what she lacked with her own mother and, deep inside of him, he had nearly felt that when his son came, it would be his turn to replay what he had lacked with his own father. And now… Well, now the time would never come.

Words are powerful things, and the words that had come out of his mouth nearly cost him everything.

Blair had been screaming and shaking. It was the night before she left, and they had broken out into a huge fight. That's when she had finally said what she had seen.

"_I can't pretend, Chuck! You can pretend, because you didn't see him. You didn't see his tiny b-body, you didn't! I saw him, I saw my baby…" She wailed loudly. Instinctively he grabbed on to her, perhaps to make her stop because he couldn't bear to hear anymore, he didn't want to think about it, didn't want to feel anything about it, he just wanted it all to go away. But she didn't stop. "… I couldn't save him, I couldn't…"_

Raw. He felt like someone had skinned him raw.

He had visions. He saw it in his dreams, though he had not seen it. But he saw it: a small, defenseless baby boy dead as Blair watched on, silent tears tracking her face. His little fingers not moving. His little chest not breathing. Just limp. Like one of Ilsa's many dolls. A play thing. A toy dangled before them, full of promises, that vanished before their eyes.

And he became conflicted. He was torn. He had feared turning into his father and had succeeded, in his eyes, in preventing that. But the moment Serena called him to tell him that the baby had been stillborn, his soul had been drenched in his father's essence.

"_Is she alive?" Was the only thing that he managed to reply._

"_She is… But she's broken, Chuck. She's broken," Serena said so very softly that he swore the wind had whispered it to him._

He was conflicted. On the one hand, he thanked God Blair was alive and well. On the other hand, he wanted to yell at her for not saving his boy. It was irrational and sacrilegious, he knew that. But in the deeps of his tormented mind, he thought it. He felt it. He hated himself for thinking such things about his love. He knew it killed her to think that her body couldn't save the baby, but he still wanted to yell. He wanted to scream, he wanted to shove his money at someone and demand that they fix it. But all the money, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put his family together again. So the king, silent and stony, had to step down from his throne of rubies and search with his bare hands for his Queen. It made no sense in his mind. He couldn't even look at his precious daughter because he saw Blair's face staring back at him, telling him that she couldn't save the baby. Those words haunted him in the darkest moments in the night. This was why she left, he knew, because she could see it in his eyes, see him begging for an explanation.

That morning, when he found small Ilsa curled up on the other side of their door, he had picked his angel up and lay her next to Blair. Blair's eyes had turned and looked at him, hollow and ashamed. She needed him, and he didn't know how to help. So he did what he did best.

"_I'm going to work," he said quietly, and he saw how those words destroyed her._

She needed him there, and he just couldn't take it anymore. He needed to get out. He needed to survive because his son had not survived. Chuck Bass had not cried. Not once. Not for his wife, for his son, for his daughter or for himself. He often thought that all his tears had dried up after his father died and, despite Blair's melodic voice telling him he was not his father, his father's hard face haunted him day after day.

It was 6:56 when Dorota called him that evening.

"_Mr. Chuck… Miss Blair… She take her suitcase, Mr. Chuck. Miss Ilsa ask for Miss Blair, but I no find her…"_

And he knew he had finally done it.

How many times had he walked out of Blair's life? Plenty. But Blair never walked out unless he was unreachable. Unless he had messed up beyond repair. She had always been the one to shake him up and make him grow up, and now she had simply left. Left everything behind. Left him alone with Ilsa and their one thousand memories. It was her way of saying 'get to work' on the things that mattered. Knowing that Ilsa took her milk with honey, knowing that Ilsa quoted her mother seventeen times a day, knowing that Blair loved them and would never leave forever.

Learning the meaning of forever.

He was sure he would catch her in London; he had been certain of it. And when all that she left was her scent to tease him, to remind him of the possibilities of their life, he had finally broken down. Like a fallen toy, broken and shaken. Unable to recuperate. He didn't even know how long he lay on the bed, replaying his life with Blair in his head, seeing what their life would be like if their son had been born. He saw it all in his mind, like a black and white film with no sound. Just smiling faces and children running and laughing. Then little hands, little kisses and little words dragged him back and he finally looked on his daughter.

They had created this. They had made this. This little girl who talked to a stuffed animal and idolized her parents. This little angelic creature who kissed his tears away and promised him that everything would be fine. She saved him, like her mother had done in the past, when he didn't want to be saved. When all he wanted was to be angry and blame someone – even if that someone was his innocent wife. She had saved him. She had saved _them_.

Irony was searching for something and then that something finding had all along instead.

"No, Daddy!" Ilsa cried, appalled. "She needs to fix Prince Albert for good until all that is left is a scar!"

Chuck looked down at the frog with the broken smile. How alive it seemed just then.

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"_You really can't understand the meaning of marriage until you agree to it and actually stick it out despite the fights, the tragedies and the uncertainty. Is love enough? No, not always. It's understanding, it's acceptance, it's support. It's being both the strong one and the weak one. It's believing that tomorrow will be better than today. When I finally understood all of that, I was able to throw away all of the childhood fantasy books my mother had bought me, and she didn't argue with me when I did." ~ Ilsa C. Bass_

And so it was that the small, fragile, yet loving little family rode down Fifth Avenue and towards Grandma Eleanor, who deftly sewed Prince Albert back together again. To hide the scar around his neck, she demanded Chuck hand over his bowtie and cleverly sewed it over the scar.

"Look! Prince Albert looks just like Daddy now, Mommy!" Ilsa cried happily, hugging the frog that cost nothing yet made her so happy.

"He does, doesn't he?" Blair asked, and Chuck bristled good-naturedly.

Ilsa wanted to feed the ducks, but she fell asleep on her father's chest on the way there as her mother combed her hair and hummed her favorite tune. After re-routing them home, Arthur opened the door for the small regal family. They brought their sleeping baby to her bed, made sure her small shoes were off along with her yellow coat, and they loosened her hair.

"She'll be out for a while," Blair told him as he closed the door behind them. "Do you need to get to work?"

He looked her over. She was tired herself, he could tell by the way her eyes drooped slightly.

"I'm taking some time off… I think it's best," he explained, placing his hands on her shoulders and rubbing them slightly.

"I'm not going anywhere, I told you," she attempted to reassure him again, despite their long night of comforting one another.

"Then neither am I," he replied and took her hand, walking her to their room. She echoed his actions, closing the door behind them. She slipped off her heels and he stood tall looking down at her.

"I'm sorry about the baby…" she whispered, her eyes once more filling with water.

"Please don't be…" he whispered back, pulling her small frame to his, kissing her temple as her lashes fluttered slightly over her face.

"But I an," she rebuffed. "We wanted a large family…"

"And we might still have it. Serena is bound to get herself knocked up in one of her many trysts, I'm sure of that –"

Blair laughed.

"We'll just care for the baby."

"We'll care for your stepsister's illegitimate child?" She asked, smiling.

"Someone has to," he smiled gently back at her, and she leaned forward and kissed him.

"What happened to that man, Chuck?" She asked, brows furrowed.

His jaw twitched ever so slightly, hiding it well because he knew she would be able to tell if he gave even the slightest indication. But she knew her husband well; she'd known him since he was a lonely child with no friends and no father. She knew what the shadows that crossed his face meant.

"Don't say it," she clarified. "Just assure me he won't ever hurt my baby again."

"He won't." And his pale throat worked up and down.

It is both a sad and lonely life to rule the world; quite isolating. This is the world that both of them grew up knowing. They assured themselves the night Ilsa was born that she would never know that world. That she would be loved and cared for, and she would know her parents as well as they knew her.

Ilsa remained an only child until the age of eight, when she had the worst day of her life. Prince Albert had long ago become a forgotten toy in the back of her large closet where it was presumed he retired with the Barbies in their large pink house. He still wore Chuck's bowtie. After all, yellow was his color.

On the worst day of Ilsa's life was when none other than Paxton Burke was dropped off on the steps of her school. He looked alone and unsure, yet arrogant and quiet. She was surrounded by her group of adoring fans, and they all began whispering about him. She knew him instantly as the mean boy who attempted to kill one of her beloved toys and decided to ignore him in the hopes he would go away.

He didn't. He would stare and stare at her until she finally confronted him about his stalker-like activities. They spat a few words to one another, and she walked purposely away, happily so. She ran home to tell her mother all about that horrible boy, only to find both her parents cuddled together in the living room, her father's hand pressed over her mother's belly. A belly that Ilsa noticed was a bit larger.

There was no one to hear her story, and the only talk was about the coming baby. Small Ilsa had few memories at the time of the previous tragedy that had affected their lives, but she hated it nonetheless. After eight blissful years of being the only one that competed for her parents' and grandparents' attention, the change caused quite a chaos in the spoiled Ilsa.

During the baby shower – which became quite a sensational social event – Ilsa ran out of the room, devastated at being ignored. No one had even mentioned her lovely white eyelet dress, matching hat and gloves. No one. Perhaps her parents, but they looked so much happier with petting Mommy's belly that it broke Ilsa's heart. So she ran out of the and hid out in the gardens, where she was sure to find some solace.

It was there that Paxton Burke found her crying. He, too, sported white shorts and a white sports coat with a matching hat. He looked over her tears and swiftly kissed her full on the lips, leaving Ilsa affronted and aghast. Despite her crying protests, his lips left her heart beating loudly until she thought she would go deaf. That was how the theory that kissing the wrong boy would leave you deaf began circulating at her school. It was quite a popular theory until 7th grade, when the kissing epidemic began.

Ilsa remembered the day her baby brother was born until she was elderly and partly deaf. There had been tension in the house that she did not understand at the time, but it all stemmed from her parent's loss some years before.

Charles Alexis Bass-Waldorf was born a healthy baby boy. He was actually born two weeks _after_ he was supposed to come to this world. It was his own way of telling his parents that he would come when he wanted to and they couldn't rush him. He was quite a contrast to his sister, who was eager and hyper, inquisitive and talkative. Charles was the opposite. Much like his own father as a child, he was quiet, calculating and smooth. He took his time learning things, but when he did he grasped them better than Ilsa. He gave his parents quite a scare when he refused to eat for three days until he was fed from the formula he enjoyed and grew quite steadily from then on.

When Ilsa first laid eyes on her tiny, pink baby brother, she was quite cynical about the entire development. She didn't understand why they would _need_ a baby brother. Her mother had told her that she would now learn to share and to be kind to him. Ilsa didn't think any of this sounded fun or exciting. It sounded quite terrible, actually.

Yet when she saw him there, bundled in her father's arms, something happened to her little heart.

"Can I carry him?" She asked her father, and she was made to sit between her father's legs as her Aunt Serena lowered the baby into her arms, her father framing her in case she dropped the small baby.

Charles peered up at his big sister and instantly sneezed, covering her with baby snot. Needless to say she wasn't very fond of the baby, even tried to lock him in his room a few times. Blair had to be extremely careful because Ilsa would imitate everything she saw her mother to do the baby. Right down to dousing him with baby powder and nearly choking the child.

Ilsa didn't really bond with her brother until one day, after staring at her for a while, his little lips formed a small O. "Isa," he said. His first word had been his sister's name. From then on, he was her little doll. Evelyn came less than two years later, and the Basses finally had the large family they had wished for. The house was filled with screaming children, the sound of running feet and even a dog that became unnaturally attached to Chuck's socks.

Now, for Chuck and Charles, it was an interesting partnership. Though Ilsa was Daddy's little princess right down to the day she was married, Charles and his father had a bond much like Ilsa and her mother's. Charles wouldn't settle to sleep until his father held him, Charles wouldn't bathe unless his father was present, Charles was a bit attached to his father and his father never refused him a hug a kiss or a talk. They weren't the pair to do things such as playing catch; their male bonding consisted of Chuck taking the baby to the office with a trailing nanny and Charles chewing happily on his toys while his father yelled at the accounting department. Afterwards, the pair would pick up flowers for the girls of the house and perhaps have some sushi delivered.

Now Evelyn was born prematurely, at seven months. She was born somewhat healthy, but with really bad asthma. She was a sickly baby, demanding more attention because of her condition than the other two children before her. It wasn't until age seven that little Evelyn, the youngest of the family, began to have a normal childhood. Because of this, she was very attached to her mother. Despite her health difficulties and her challenges, Evelyn became the natural rebel of the house. Ignoring her mother's path of daintiness and her father's love of capitalism, she was the one who dated every rocker, actor and poet she could find – much to her parent's distress. She also sported her grandfather's cool blue eyes, steely and sure. Despite all the headaches she gave her parents, when they became very elderly, she lived with them and took care of them. That was how she met Malcolm Pierre, her mother's personal doctor, with whom she engaged in a passionate and tumultuous affair. Evelyn never married him, but lived with him for the rest of his life. She lived twenty years after he passed away and was the 'cool' aunt that all the grandchildren loved.

Charles inherited his father's appetite for the company of many, many women, much to his mother's distress. Yet at the age of 22, he re-discovered Angelica Archibald and knocked her up. Chuck Bass and Nathaniel Archibald forced him to marry her (Nathaniel Archibald blamed Charles' father for the entire incident, and while they argued, the young ones made-out behind their backs). Charles and Angelica had their child, divorced, got pregnant again, re-married, had another child, divorced, had another child, remarried and have been together ever since.

When Blair and Chuck Bass passed away, Ilsa became the matriarchal figure in the family and her own daughter, Blair, was to inherit this same position.

Evelyn Bass and Blair Burke discovered and published Ilsa's diaries, but some entries never saw the light of day. All families have their secrets.

"_I asked myself during my father's funeral, how do you end a tale as lovely as theirs? I watched as his coffin was lowered neatly next to my mother's, and I realized nothing I can do or say can fix them. They are now gone forever, and somehow I am transformed once more into the little girl who needed her parents at every waking moment. There is an emptiness in my heart that even my own children cannot fill. I find myself suddenly remembering many, many things about my own childhood. A trip around Europe with my father when my mother went missing, a man attacking me and my understanding fear for the very first time, my mother's scent and how it felt to be in her arms. Childhood passes by so quickly, in the blink of an eye, or so this is what the adult thinks and believes. Yet to a child, childhood can be a lifetime._

_I begin to remember small things the older I get. I remember sounds and smells; I remember the tiniest details of my young life. I remember so much that I can barely offer you a glimpse of a lifetime of memories. I remember how young and vibrant my mother was, how fair her skin was and how wonderful she smelled right after a bath. I remember my father drinking orange juice at the breakfast table, and I remember how much he loved my mother, blatantly unashamed of his love for her. I remember my father talking softly to my young brother, and I remember my mother fretting over Evelyn when she would begin her wheezing. I remember all the details of a life well lived, and I quickly realize that those moments already happened and will not be happening again. Those are gone, as far gone as my parents now are, buried deep in good earth. _

_Death can be as incomprehensible as life. In retrospect, there's only one choice to have; to live because the memories they created for us are the foundation of our tomorrow. The ability to greet the world with a smiling face is deep within each of us, despite the grand sense of loss that often invades us. There are moments when memories of them make me smile, laugh and even cry. There are moments when I feel lost, alone and without a path to follow. Then there are moments when I realize that the ability to create something wonderful in this short time we have been given is in my hands. All I have to do is tell my feet the path they should wander."_

_~ Ilsa C. Bass_

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The end.

a/n: A special thank you for those of you who left reviews and let me know how much you enjoyed the story. I am very thankful you enjoyed it and I hope Ilsa touched you in some way :)

I _might_ write an accompanying one-shot, not sure yet.


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